Jihyo/Jeongyeon
Jihyo
The sun dipped low, casting their camp in a thick, honeyed glow. Slim shadows draped over the group as they circled around Jihyo, but no one was talking. No one even fidgeted. The quiet had weight to it—dense and breathless, like the air before a storm.
Jihyo sat rigid, she hadn’t moved from her spot in the sand, her fingers wrapped so tightly around the bottle of tequila it looked like it might shatter. The alcohol had been a bad idea—Jeongyeon had said so, warned her that it could thin her blood, make the bleeding worse. But Jihyo had taken a long pull anyway, then another, until her throat was raw and her limbs had started to buzz. The burn in her throat was nothing compared to the fire she knew would soon engulf her knee. She didn’t care, she needed the edge dulled, even just a little.
Her leg throbbed beneath her, swollen and red and radiating heat. The pressure was unbearable now, the skin taut and angry around the embedded rocks. She could barely bend it. Every hour she waited, it grew worse.
Nayeon crouched in front of her, the knife resting in her hands. It was nothing more than a jagged shard of stone secured to a carved piece of wood with tightly wound twine. They’d scorched it clean in the fire earlier, then sharpened the edge as best they could. Now it looked sterile, almost surgical, but that didn’t make it any easier to look at.
Nayeon met her eyes and didn’t sugarcoat it. “We have to do this.”
She gave her a sharp nod. “I know.”
Jeongyeon moved behind her, arms looping around her torso—not to comfort her, not just to offer strength, but to restrain her. Jihyo understood it the moment she felt Jeongyeon’s grip tighten. It wasn’t trust. It was necessity. If she moved, if she thrashed when the blade went in, they could make things worse.
She had to stay still.
Her breath came uneven. She didn’t want to cry, but her body trembled against Jeongyeon’s hold. The heat of her friend’s chest pressed into her back, almost soft but locking her in place.
“I’ve got you,” Jeongyeon murmured in her ear. “It’ll be over before you know it.”
Jihyo nodded again, but her voice was gone. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip until she tasted blood.
Sana and Momo each took her leg. Momo at the ankle, her grip steady, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. Sana held just below the knee, her palms damp and fingers trembling, but she didn’t let go. They weren’t comforting her either. They were bracing her, keeping her from moving.
Jihyo stared ahead, teeth clenched so hard her temple throbbed. She could feel her pulse pounding in her ears. The tequila buzz wasn’t enough. Her palms were slick with sweat. Her stomach churned.
The rest stood at a distance now, too startled—too afraid—to even watch.
Nayeon positioned herself just beside her knee, knife in one hand, clean cloth in the other. Her expression was unreadable, but her hands didn’t shake.
“I’ll be fast,” Nayeon said. “You just keep breathing.” She paused for a second to take a deep breath. “Ready?”
Jihyo didn’t answer. She didn’t blink. Her throat was too tight to speak.
Then, hoarsely, “No,” Jihyo admitted, her voice breaking slightly. “But do it anyway. Don’t wait for me to say okay.”
“Alright.”
And without another word, the blade broke skin.
Pain burst through her leg like fire, white hot and all-consuming. Her scream tore out of her before she could stop it, raw and guttural, echoing into the trees behind them. Jeongyeon’s arms locked tighter around her chest, not just for support—restraint. Jihyo’s body lurched, instinct screaming at her to pull away, to make it stop, but Jeongyeon held fast. Her breath was close and steady at Jihyo’s ear, anchoring her.
“I know,” Jeongyeon murmured, her voice betraying how scared she was, how scared she sounded. “I know. Just breathe.”
“I’m sorry,” Nayeon’s voice cracked, the knife pausing for only a second before moving again. “I’m so sorry... I’m almost there, just a little more.”
Jihyo bent forward, a desperate moan escaping as she bit hard into her shirt collar. It tasted of salt and earth. Her lungs stuttered for air, the agony pulsing through her like it had weight.
Sana’s grip on her lower leg was immovable, her fingers biting into flesh. She wasn’t comforting—she was bracing. Holding Jihyo still, whether she wanted it or not. Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent, fast and landing on her shin.
"You're doing good," Sana whispered, though she wasn’t sure who the words were meant for. “You’re doing so good.”
Momo’s hands clamped just above the ankle, her knuckles blanched white.
Her free leg thrashed so hard it kicked up sand in every direction. She didn’t mean to—it wasn’t a choice. Her body just reacted, instinctive and wild, because the pain... the pain was starting to think for her.
"Someone, hold her down!" Jeongyeon shouted from behind, panic edging into her voice. She was terrified the movement would make everything worse.
It didn’t take long before more hands clamped down on her leg—Mina and Chaeyoung—pinning it firmly to the ground. This time, she was completely still. Not an inch left to fight.
“It’s open,” Nayeon said after a moment, her voice gone flat. “It’s deeper than I thought. There’s still stuff inside.”
Nayeon crouched beside her, the bamboo sliver shaved narrow almost like a splinter resting on the ground within reach. They had soaked the tip in vodka earlier, letting it drip clean before setting it aside to dry.
Nayeon met her eyes—firm, serious. The usual shine was gone, replaced by something harder. The message was clear—this is going to hurt more than before, and there’s no other way.
Jihyo gave a broken nod, her face streaked with tears, her fingers clawing into Jeongyeon’s arms like she was trying to root herself in something that wouldn’t move.
“don’t hold back,” Jeongyeon said, her grip steady as Jihyo trembled in her arms. “Whatever comes, just let it out.”
The first dig sent Jihyo’s body into a jolt. A sob broke from her lips, and her heel kicked instinctively before Chaeyoung gripped tighter.
Another press, and she screamed—sharp, ragged, pulled from somewhere too deep to name. The bamboo slipped in again, scraping against something, and the pain bloomed all over again.
“I’m sorry,” Nayeon sobbed, her hands shaking. “I’m trying, Jihyo. Just a little more.”
“Keep going,” Jihyo rasped through clenched teeth. “Don’t stop.”
More fragments surfaced, blood streaking down her leg in thin rivers. With each one, her body seized, then sagged, then seized again. The world narrowed to heat and sound—panting breaths, stifled cries... the rustle of leaves behind them.
She couldn’t tell how long it lasted—seconds, minutes, hours. All she knew was the relief that came when Nayeon finally pulled back.
“It’s done,” she said. No victory in her tone. Just fatigue. Her hands, soaked and trembling, pressed a folded cloth to the wound. “I got as much as I could,” Nayeon said, her voice rough, like it had been dragged over gravel. Her hands were slick, as she took the bottle of vodka from Mina.
"Last part," she added, meeting Jihyo’s eyes. There was no gentleness in it—just grim honesty. “You ready?”
Jihyo let out something between a breath and a laugh, her face wet and pale. “Just do it. Please.”
The vodka splashed into the open wound, and her scream tore through the thick air. It wasn’t just pain—it was panic, betrayal, hot and biting. Her back arched, muscles seizing. Jeongyeon gripped her tighter, holding her in place as her body bucked.
“Shhhh, shhh, it’s okay. It’s over,” Jeongyeon whispered against her ear, over and over, though her own voice shook.
Sana and Momo didn’t flinch. Momo pressed her palm harder into Jihyo’s shin, steadying her, while Sana locked both arms around her thigh, her jaw clenched, eyes glinting with tears she refused to let fall.
Eventually, the spasms dulled. Jihyo collapsed against Jeongyeon, her breath coming in short, broken gasps, her forehead slick with sweat.
Nayeon moved fast now, working with new urgency. She took the thinner cloth strips first—strips they’d cut earlier from a worn shirt. She wrapped them carefully, overlapping each one to press down and seal the open wound. Then she reached for the larger piece of fabric, wrapping it tightly over the entire knee, binding it up just as they had done before—only now, it felt different. More fragile. More necessary.
Jihyo winced with every shift, but she didn’t cry out again. There was nothing left in her. Her eyes were half closed, her face slack with the shock.
“You did it,” Jeongyeon whispered as she kissed her hair, her voice hoarse. “You held through.”
Jihyo couldn’t answer. Her throat was raw, her body wrung out like wet cloth. But her eyes fluttered open for a moment, searching the circle of faces.
“Thank you,” she rasped. The words were barely there, more air than sound.
The girls didn’t speak. They nodded, reached for her—soft touches, light as a feather, a palm on her arm, a hand brushing her hair back, a thumb pressing gently to her wrist.
She felt their presence like warmth pressing in around her, holding her steady when her own body couldn’t. Someone slipped an arm beneath her back, another hooked beneath her knees. She didn’t resist. Let herself be lifted, carried.
Inside the shelter they placed her down with care. A hand rested on her forehead and then soft lips were pressed there.
She didn’t see who it was. Couldn’t even ask. But a familiar body curled up beside her, arm looping gently around her waist.
The ache in her knee pulsed like a second heartbeat. But it was distant now, muffled behind the veil of exhaustion. The pain couldn’t reach her, not all the way.
She closed her eyes.
And let the dark take her.
The smell hit her first—garlic, it was warm, maybe ginger. It clung to the air like a memory. Jihyo blinked against the blurry edges, everything around her flickered, like a candle struggling to stay lit. She was standing in the kitchen. No, not hers. Not any real one. But the kitchen they used to share. The one of her dreams.
Golden light spilled in from windows she couldn’t find, the ceiling too tall, the walls gently curving like they belonged in some other house. The smell wrapped around her, inviting. In the kitchen, Jeongyeon stirred something in a wide pot, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, humming low under her breath. Momo stood beside her, slicing something orange into neat half moons. Carrots, maybe. Maybe sweet potato. Jihyo couldn’t tell.
A laugh echoed from behind her.
"Took you long enough," Nayeon teased, suddenly leaning against the doorframe like she’d always been there. Her grin was lazy and wide, her eyes brighter than Jihyo remembered.
Sana appeared next, her fingers already closing around Jihyo’s arm, tugging her forward. “Come on, we’re waiting.”
The living room unfurled before her like a stage—lights strung across the ceiling, paper stars taped to the walls. Tzuyu sat on the floor, legs tucked beneath her, working through a hopeless tangle of cords. Chaeyoung leaned over her shoulder, offering advice and likely making things worse. Mina sat on the couch, wrapping something they were hiding from her. Dahyun stood at her side, trying not to peek, but failing entirely.
When they all turned, Jihyo flinched slightly, but they just beamed.
"Surprise!"
There was a cake—white frosting, crooked letters in icing. Happy Birthday, Jihyo.
She stared at it.
“It’s my birthday?” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Of course it is,” Jeongyeon called from the kitchen, like it was obvious. “What, you thought we’d forget?”
“Not in this lifetime,” Momo added, appearing beside her with a tray of drinks, grinning.
It was too much. Too warm. Too perfect. Jihyo’s throat tightened, her eyes stinging. She opened her mouth to thank them—say something, anything—but the doorbell cut through it.
Sana opened the door.
Her parents stepped in first, followed by her sisters. Jihyo blinked hard, as if she could make sure it wasn’t just some illusion conjured by longing. Her mother was already moving, her arms outstretched.
Jihyo collided into her, burying herself in the embrace. Her mother smelled like home—soft detergent and spices from the garden. Her hands stroked Jihyo’s back like she was trying to erase lost time in one hug.
Her father folded his arms around them both, “We’ve missed you,” he said, voice rough at the edges. “So much. You’ve been gone too long.” He took her hand, his touch so tender. “I’m sorry... For everything. For the fight.”
Jihyo shook her head, tears blurring everything. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be away so long. I didn’t mean to miss anything.”
“You’re here now,” her mother said, kissing her forehead. “That’s all that matters.”
Her sisters were next—bright smiles and warm hands, pulling her into a tighter circle. One of them brushed the tears from her cheeks, “You look tired,” she said, and then added with a laugh, “but you haven’t lost your charm.”
They all sat down together on the couch, their limbs tangled, hands finding hands, heads resting on shoulders. Her heart swelled with so much love it felt like it might burst. She wanted to stay here forever, wrapped in the warmth of her family and her girls.
She turned back to the kitchen, breath catching in her throat as Momo walked toward them, holding the hot pot between her hands.
“Momo, careful,” Jihyo said. The tone was light. Joking. Everything felt just on the edge of laughter.
Then Momo tripped.
Time slowed.
The pot slipped. Liquid splashed through the air, glinting gold. Jihyo couldn’t move fast enough. The burn ripped through her leg like fire meeting gasoline. Her scream tore through the room, shattering everything.
She woke with a gasp, her whole body recoiling before she could stop it. The pain came immediately pulsing deep in her knee like it was still being carved open. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, heart racing too fast to catch.
The dream was gone. The soft light, the laughter, her family—it all evaporated, replaced by the quiet hush of night and the faint hum of insects outside the shelter walls.
"Jihyo?" Jeongyeon’s voice came low. She shifted beside her, hand already on Jihyo’s shoulder. "Hey. Are you okay?”
Her throat felt tight, her tongue thick. She turned her head, eyes adjusting to the dim glow from the fire outside. Nayeon lay on her other side, her brow furrowed even in sleep. Her hand rested lightly against Jihyo’s waist, as if she’d fallen asleep mid watch.
“I’m fine,” Jihyo rasped eventually, though her voice cracked on the word. She wasn’t. The memory of her dream still clung to her—her mother’s hug, her father’s voice, the safety of it all. She couldn’t stop the sting behind her eyes, or the way her fingers trembled against her will.
Jeongyeon shifted closer. Her hand moved softly through Jihyo’s hair trying to calm her down. She knew that kind of start too well, a dream... a nightmare. “Was it of home?” she asked, “Your family?”
Jihyo nodded, and this time the ache in her chest had little to do with her knee. She shut her eyes tight. “It felt real. So real...”
Jeongyeon didn’t reply. Her presence said enough—quiet and solid, the way only she could be.
After a moment, Jihyo adjusted her position, grimacing as the pain in her leg flared again. “Jeong?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For what you did earlier. For holding me. I wouldn’t have made it through that without you.”
Jeongyeon’s hand slowed, she moved down and started tracing circles on Jihyo’s arm. When Jihyo glanced down, she noticed faint bruises along her skin—shadows of the way Jeongyeon had gripped her.
Jeongyeon followed her gaze. “I held too tight,” she said. “I didn’t mean to. I just... I had to keep you still. I’m sorry.”
Jihyo reached over and wrapped her fingers around Jeongyeon’s. “Don’t be. You did what you had to do. These”—she gestured at the marks—“they’re not something to apologize for. They’re proof you were there when I needed you the most. That I wasn’t alone.”
Outside, the wind rustled through the leaves, and from Nayeon’s side came a faint, congested snore. She blinked, then let out a disbelieving laugh.
“God, listen to her,” she whispered. “Out cold.”
“She burned herself out today. Didn’t even want to rest until you were settled. Classic Nayeon. She always pushes herself too hard. Even back home...”
Her smile lingered, but her next question came quieter. “Is it her?”
Jeongyeon’s eyes met hers, caught off guard.
“The girl you love,” Jihyo clarified. “Is it Nayeon?”
There was a beat. Then Jeongyeon shook her head. “No.”
Her tone was careful. Not guarded—but not entirely open either.
She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.
Jeongyeon hesitated, her gaze flickering to the bruises on Jihyo’s arm before meeting her eyes. “Jihyo I... It’s you,” she said, “But... I’m trying to come to terms with things. Respecting what you and Sana have. I don’t want to get in the way.”
She looked up, "Nothing about any of this is defined. We’re not trying to fit into old shapes anymore. So if you ever get to a point where you want to see what this could mean—between us—I’ll be here."
A small breath escaped Jeongyeon’s lips, and something in her posture loosened. But she shook her head. "I don’t think I’m ready. I want to be. But I’m used to certainty. One person, one path. This... doesn’t work that way."
Jihyo inched closer and reached out, drawing Jeongyeon into an embrace. Her arms circled her with no pressure, no expectation—just presence.
Jeongyeon leaned in, resting her forehead against her shoulder. Her breath trembled on the exhale, her eyes stinging with something too complex to name. Jihyo’s hand found the space between her shoulder blades and moved it slowly, grounding her.
No promises. No decisions. Just a silent truth, that whatever this was, it mattered.
Jihyo shifted again, now adjusting her position despite the throb in her knee. The pain hadn’t faded—not really—but her body had begun to carry it like background noise.
She stared at the ceiling of the shelter, faint outlines of leaves above catching what little light crept in from outside. Jeongyeon moved too, propped up on one elbow, her gaze still fixed on Jihyo in that subtle way of hers.
There was something unspoken between them, and Jihyo didn’t want to ignore it anymore.
"You’ve been quiet," she said, voice low trying not to wake Nayeon. ”I just worry... Is it because of me? Because of what you said?”
Jeongyeon blinked, caught off guard. “No. Yes. I mean... I don’t know.” Her lips twisted into something between a smile and a grimace. “There’s just a lot I’m still sorting through.”
“I’ve noticed things too, I guess.”
“Yeah?”
Her body ached, but her mind was sharp enough to read between lines. “You’ve been looking at Nayeon differently,” she said gently, watching Jeongyeon’s expression carefully. “Not just now. For a while.”
“I don’t—“
"I think," Jihyo said, "you’re trying not to see something that’s already there."
Jeongyeon exhaled through her nose, not denying it. “Maybe.” Her eyes dropped to the thin bruises on Jihyo’s arms, shadows from when she’d held her down earlier. “I’ve been trying not to think about it. About any of it.”
There was no drama in her tone. No confession. Just a weariness that settled in her shoulders like something she’d been carrying too long.
“I don’t think I’m built for this,” Jeongyeon said finally. “The way things are now. Everyone’s heart open, overlapping. It’s not how I learned to love.”
“I get that,” she said after a moment. “I’m not asking you to explain it. I just... I think it matters. You just have to be honest with yourself about what’s real—and what’s just fear.”
Jeongyeon looked at her, eyes searching. “And what if I’m not sure what’s what?”
“Then wait,” Jihyo said. “Not for answers, but for the moments that make things clearer. They’ll come. They always do.”
Silence fell again, but it felt softer now. Jeongyeon lay back down beside her, her arm brushing lightly against Jihyo’s.
“You always make things sound easier than they are.”
Jihyo smiled faintly. “That’s just the I almost died-level pain talking.”
Jeongyeon huffed a laugh under her breath, the kind that barely made it to her lips. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“You won’t,” Jihyo said, her voice quieter now. “Not by feeling something. That’s never what ruins things. It’s pretending you don’t.”
She looked at Jeongyeon and saw it in her again. That look—the way her gaze lingered a second too long on Nayeon, the way her breath hitched ever so slightly. Something was shifting. Not a revelation. But the start of one.
Jihyo turned her face toward the shelter wall again, her knee still pulsing beneath the wrappings. She leaned her head against Jeongyeon’s, the side of her face brushing skin warm from the shelter’s heat. For a few seconds, neither of them moved. The ache in her knee pulsed with a low, persistent throb.
The quiet between them wasn’t empty. It carried the weight of what hadn’t been said, what couldn’t be undone. Jeongyeon moved closer again, and when she looked at Jihyo, her expression held something unspoken. Tired. Bracing.
“I don’t think they’re coming for us anymore,” Jihyo said, and saying it out loud felt like pushing a stone off a cliff. There was no pulling it back.
Jeongyeon didn’t blink. Her jaw tensed, then relaxed. She just nodded. “Yeah. Two weeks is a long time. Too long. That’s not a search anymore. That’s a name on a list.”
The words hit like the cold water of the sea. Jihyo stared down at her hands, her nails dirty and ragged. The admission didn’t break her, but it scraped something deep inside her chest. She’d known it. She just hadn’t wanted to hear it from someone else.
“It hurts more when someone else says it,” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
“But there’s also a strange kind of peace in it,” Jihyo added. “Like... if this is it, then I have to stop wasting time waiting for something that isn’t coming. I have to keep everyone going. Even when I don’t feel like I can.”
Jeongyeon’s voice dropped low. “We can handle it, you and me. But the others? They’re still holding out hope. And hope’s the only thing holding some of them together.”
Jihyo nodded, her throat tight. “Then we don’t tell them. We keep them going.”
Jeongyeon didn’t argue. She just leaned forward, her hands clasped to Jihyo.
She let the silence settle again before speaking. “It was my family... my dream.”
Jeongyeon looked over. “Yeah?”
“It was my birthday, I think. They were all there. My mom cried, and my dad kept fussing about meaningless stuff. My sisters were teasing me like always.” Her voice caught for a moment. “They hugged me so tight, like they hadn’t seen me in years. My dad apologized for something—I don’t even know what. I said sorry too. I think... I think we were just trying to say everything we didn’t get to before.”
She paused, her breath hitching. “It felt like they were letting me go.”
Jeongyeon was watching her, listening to her every word, “Do you think they’ll move on one day?”
Jihyo’s lip trembled and the tears started coming. “I hope they do. I hope they find a way to keep living without me.”
She wiped at her eyes quickly, but the tears kept coming. Beside her, Jeongyeon swallowed hard.
“I keep thinking about the last time I saw my mom,” Jeong said. “She was nagging me about laundry. I rolled my eyes and rushed out the door. If I’d known that was the last time... I would’ve stayed. I would’ve let her talk as long as she wanted.”
Jihyo reached out and placed a hand over Jeongyeon’s. She didn’t squeeze. She didn’t speak. Just rested it there.
“Regret won’t change anything,” Jihyo said, her gaze locked on Jeongyeon. “I think about it too. All the time. But I just... try to hold on to the parts that meant something. The parts that still feel like me.”
Jeongyeon blinked fast and turned her face away, wiping under her nose with the heel of her hand. “You sound like someone who’s figured it out.”
“I haven’t,” Jihyo said. “I’m just trying not to fall apart long enough to keep the others from doing the same.”
They lay like that, side by side, the only sound the faint shuffle of Nayeon turning in her sleep.
Jeongyeon let out a tired laugh. “She always pretends she’s fine. But she’s probably more wrecked than any of us.”
Jihyo nodded, her eyes fixed on the sleeping silhouette. “She’s always been like that. Brave to the point of foolishness.”
“Remind you of anyone?” Jeongyeon asked, casting a look Jihyo’s way.
She leaned into Jeongyeon again, felt the way her arms wrapped around her—firm and with no hesitation. Their bodies fit together easily, like they’d done this a thousand times before. Jeongyeon’s chest rose and fell against her back, reassuring in its simple way. And this time, when Jihyo closed her eyes, it wasn’t to disappear. It was because—for the first time in days—she felt held. Really held. And no longer alone.
/////////
Jeongyeon
The sun filtered through the trees in fractured beams, lighting patches of the forest floor like bright spotlights. Jeongyeon adjusted the strap of her bag again, wincing as a corner of bamboo dug into her shoulder. The ache had long since become familiar. She didn’t bother shifting it anymore—just walked.
Behind her, she heard Chaeyoung huff as she bent to readjust her overstuffed bag again. Leaves and some reddish root tumbled out. Tzuyu moved past both of them, her coconut filled pack swaying with the rhythm of her steps.
"Think we’re close to something new?" Tzuyu asked, hopeful in a way that made Jeongyeon pause.
She looked back. Chaeyoung’s face was flushed, a sheen of sweat along her temple. Her eyes, though tired, held on to something that looked like belief.
Jeongyeon didn’t want to lie. "Doubt it. But who knows. Maybe we get lucky."
Tzuyu frowned. "You sound like Nayeon."
"That bad, huh?" Jeongyeon muttered, and Chaeyoung snorted.
"She’s trying to stay optimistic," Chaeyoung said, "Don’t crush it."
Jeongyeon didn’t answer. She didn’t have the energy to say what she was really thinking—that there probably wasn’t anything new to find. Just more trees, more heat, more proof that they were going in circles. But she kept walking.
They reached the clearing again, their bamboo heaven and dropped their bags to the ground. Tzuyu crouched down, sorting their haul into neat piles. Jeongyeon joined her, passing the straighter pieces into a second stack.
She pictured Mina’s hands weaving them into something unrecognizably useful. That focus Mina had, that trance she went into when she worked—Jeongyeon was grateful for it. For the way it pulled her out of herself.
"Mina’s going to lose it when she sees this batch," Chaeyoung said, flopping into the dirt with a grin.
"She better make us a spa," Jeongyeon replied.
“I would like a better roof," Tzuyu added, wiping her face on her sleeve.
Jeongyeon huffed and sat beside them. For a few seconds, they just listened to the forest. The insects clicking, branches rustling, something distant cracking like a twig under weight. Nothing threatening. Just alive.
"It helps her, you know," Tzuyu said after a while. "The building."
Jeongyeon nodded. "Yeah. I know."
She didn’t need to say more. They all remembered the way Mina had stared blankly at the water for hours on that first night, her fingers trembling so hard she couldn’t hold anything in her hands. Jeongyeon had sat beside her then, too, pretending to talk about nothing while Mina came back to herself.
Now, they let her build. Let her be quiet. Let her be okay in the way she needed.
"We should head back soon," Jeongyeon said, standing. Her legs were stiff, her shoulders sore. But she felt something settle inside her when she looked at the others, their strength echoing her own.
“I swear I saw that plant,” Chaeyoung said, squinting into the trees. “My mom used the roots for her healing tea... she’d give it to me every time I got sick.” Her voice softened at the end, touched with longing.
“We’ll keep looking, Chae,” Jeongyeon said. “If it’s out here, we’ll find it.”
Chaeyoung nodded, kicking at the dirt with her shoe. “It always helped,” she murmured. “Could be useful for emergencies...”
After a brief rest, they shouldered their loads again and pressed on, the dense jungle closing in with every step.Sweat clung to the back of her neck, and the humidity made each breath feel heavier than the last. Her eyes swept the brush for anything unusual—anything useful—but it was just more of the same. Leaves. Bark. Silence.
Her thoughts spiraled as they walked. They needed water. Real water. Not more coconut juice, but something clean and flowing. She tried to picture the taste of cold tap water, and the image made her throat cry.
“Jeong?”
Tzuyu’s voice broke her thoughts. Jeongyeon turned. Her expression was calm, but her eyes lingered too long on Jeongyeon’s face, like she was trying to read past it.
“I’m good,” Jeongyeon said, forcing the corners of her mouth up. “Just thinking about how many coconuts it takes to equal a single decent glass of water.”
Tzuyu gave her a small smile. “Still better than nothing.”
“Barely,” Jeongyeon muttered.
Behind them, Chaeyoung’s voice rose, cheerful and sarcastic. “If we start worshipping coconuts, do you think they’ll bless us with new flavors?”
Jeongyeon snorted, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. “We could start a cult. Coconut Sisters. I’d follow Mina—she has the vibe.”
They fell into the rhythm of it again. The path was mostly instinct now. Even the effort of searching had begun to feel circular. Go out, collect what you can, pray you’re not retracing old steps. It was starting to wear on all of them.
When they reached a familiar clearing, Jeongyeon tossed her bag to the ground and rolled her shoulders, wincing. The same broken log, the same mosscovered stones. She hated how comforting it was.
“Break?” Chaeyoung asked, not waiting for a response before slumping onto the log.
Jeongyeon nodded and followed her lead, sitting against a tree. Tzuyu set her pack down, more gently than necessary, and crouched on the edge of the clearing.
They sat for a while, the air filled with the low hum of insects and the faint creak of trees swaying overhead. Jeongyeon leaned her head back, letting her eyes close for a moment. She pictured the others back at camp—Mina sorting strips of bamboo, Nayeon pacing and pretending not to be worried. And Jihyo, leg wrapped and propped up, trying to hide her pain with half smiles.
“We’ll find something,” Tzuyu said suddenly.
Jeongyeon opened her eyes and looked at her. Tzuyu’s face was staight, but her fingers were moving—thumbs pressing into her palms, shoulders tense.
A few minutes passed. They started talking about traps—how they might catch birds. Chaeyoung carved a stick into a point as she spoke, sketching plans with it in the dirt. Jeongyeon added thoughts here and there, her mind drifting between practicality and the aching weight in her chest that wouldn’t ease.
This was also routine, just more of the same every day, until, Tzuyu stood abruptly.
Her hands twitched at her sides, one curling slightly. She blinked rapidly, her jaw tense.
“Tzuyu?” Chaeyoung asked carefully.
Jeongyeon sat up straighter. The hairs on her arms stood on end. Something wasn’t right.
“I... I need to tell you something,” Tzuyu said. Her voice cracked. She didn’t look at them, eyes fixed just past the clearing.
Jeongyeon’s pulse quickened. Her mind filled the silence with possibilities. Another injury. A secret she couldn’t hold in. Something broken. Something lost. Something that would change everything.
"I..." Tzuyu’s voice faltered as her fingers kept on moving, subtle but insistent. Her eyes flicked toward the ground, then back up. "I was diagnosed with autism."
The words hung in the air, oddly quiet among the sounds of the forest. Jeongyeon stared at her, blinking once, twice. A dozen thoughts crashed into each other in her mind, none of them fully formed. The tightness in Tzuyu’s posture, the unsteady breath she took—Jeongyeon couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it sooner. Or maybe she had. Maybe she just hadn’t understood.
Chaeyoung, however, didn’t seem as surprised. “I thought it might be something like that,” she said, her eyes fixed on Tzuyu. “I didn’t know for sure, but... I noticed things. Small things.”
Jeongyeon opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was a, “I didn’t. I didn’t see it.”
Tzuyu’s expression didn’t change much, but her voice grew steadier. “You weren’t supposed to. I didn’t tell anyone but Dahyun. And it’s not something that’s... obvious, I guess. Not unless you know what to look for. I only got the diagnosis a little while before... before all this.”
They sat with it. The weight of it. Tzuyu’s hands were still now, resting against her knees, but her shoulders hadn’t dropped yet.
“I’m not telling you because I want anything to change,” she added. “I just... I think you should know. Since we’re together a lot. Out here. It’s a part of who I am. And I don’t want to keep hiding it.”
Jeongyeon felt a pang in her chest. She wasn’t sure what emotion it was—guilt, protectiveness, something harder to name. She cleared her throat. “Thanks for trusting us with that, Tzu,” she said. Her voice came out rougher than she meant. “And seriously, if there’s ever anything you need—anything—we’ll figure it out.”
“We’re here, Tzu.”
Tzuyu looked between them, her lips parting like she might say something else, but then she just nodded. It wasn’t a small nod, either. It was firm. Intentional.
“I’ll tell the others soon, I just... I don’t want them to treat me like I’m fragile. Or explain things to me like I’m a child. I’m still me. I can handle the same things I always have.” she said. “But I wanted to start with you two. Since we’re always out here together.”
Jeongyeon leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching the way sunlight caught the edges of Tzuyu’s hair. “Tell them when you’re ready. No pressure. Just... tell us anything you need, okay?”
This time, Tzuyu’s shoulders actually dropped. The tension bled out of her inch by inch.
A moment passed in peace, filled only with the sound of their labored breathing after another long, exhausting day. It wasn’t much, but moments like this made her feel proud—of herself, of all of them. They’d made it this far. They were doing it. Actually doing it. Surviving.
It reminded her how naturally they’d come together, how effortlessly they’d become a family.
She didn’t mean to, but the thought pulled a soft breath from her chest—a quiet exhale of remembrance.
She turned to Tzuyu again, then. “You know,” she said, “you’re a hell of a lot braver than most people I’ve known.”
Tzuyu looked away, but not fast enough to hide the color rising in her cheeks.
Chaeyoung grinned, nudging her gently. “She’s always been braver than she looks. Don’t let her fool you.”
They laughed, the kind that broke tension without asking permission. And just like that, something shifted. Not everything—but maybe the beginning of it.
After their resting brake, journey back felt different—lighter, maybe, though the weight of their packs hadn't changed. Jeongyeon walked a few paces ahead of Tzuyu and Chaeyoung, her eyes scanning the familiar trail while her mind replayed the conversation they'd just had.
"If it's okay to ask... what made you decide to get tested?" Chaeyoung asked.
Jeongyeon glanced over, half-expecting Tzuyu to shut down, but she didn’t. Her shoulders didn’t tense, and her stride didn’t falter. She just nodded, like she’d already prepared for this.
"I think I always felt it," Tzuyu said. “I guess I always knew something was... different. I just didn’t have a name for it. I had trouble with certain things, like... understanding what people wanted from me sometimes, or why they reacted the way they did. Crowds would drain me really fast. Even simple things like loud noises would... they’d just get to me more than I thought they should.”
Her voice was calm, but Jeongyeon noticed the way her hands tugged lightly at the strap of her pack.
"I used to think I was just too sensitive, or slow. But after a while, I started putting the pieces together on my own. It took time, a lot of overthinking... but eventually, I let myself wonder if maybe it was something more."
Jeongyeon nodded, listening closely. It wasn’t hard to recognize some of the traits now—subtle things they’d seen in Tzuyu every day but never thought to question. “That must’ve been hard,” she said. “Not just the testing... everything before it, too. Especially with the lives we had.”
Tzuyu nodded once, "It was. But getting the diagnosis helped. Not because it changed anything about me—but because it gave me language. Something to hold onto."
"You're not broken. I hope you know that."
Tzuyu’s mouth pulled into a faint, grateful smile. "That’s what Dahyun said, too. I told her not long after I got the results. She didn’t make it a big deal... She just nodded and said, ‘Okay. That makes sense.’ Like it didn’t change anything about how she saw me."
There was a pause, and then Jeongyeon said, "Sounds like she handled it exactly right."
Tzuyu shrugged. "She usually does."
Their feet kept crunching over dry leaves and twigs. They walked a little further before Chaeyoung asked, “Did you always feel like people didn’t get you? Or was it more situational?”
She watches as Tzuyu thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. "It wasn’t that I couldn’t connect. Just... that it took longer. I’d say something and people would pause, or laugh when I wasn’t joking. Or they’d think I didn’t care, because I wasn’t reacting the way they expected. But with you guys, I don’t feel that pressure. I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not."
Jeongyeon’s throat tightened. The honesty in Tzuyu’s voice hit her in a place she hadn’t been expecting.
"That means a lot to hear," she said. "And I’m glad you feel safe with us. That’s how it should be."
The path widened slightly as they moved closer, and the scent of damp soil and moss thickened in the air. They didn’t speak much after that. There wasn’t anything more that needed to be said. Tzuyu had shared a part of herself rarely spoken aloud, and Jeongyeon felt it sink into her chest—not as a burden, but as a responsibility.
She glanced back one last time, catching the low murmur of Tzuyu and Chaeyoung’s voices blending with the rhythm of the ocean nearby. Tzuyu smiled at something Chaeyoung said—another secret, maybe, or maybe just another piece of herself.
Braver than any of them gave her credit for.
/////////
A few days passed, and like always, the three of them found themselves inland again—wandering deeper, searching for anything useful to bring back. Always moving, always scanning, always trying. They’d been at it since morning, and now, with their bags full and their legs aching, they followed the same familiar path that would lead them home.
Jeongyeon kept her gaze forward, occasionally scanning the trees for markers, but her attention kept drifting to Tzuyu. There was tension in the younger girl’s posture—shoulders slightly drawn in, brow furrowed just enough to give her away.
“Something on your mind?” Jeongyeon asked, her voice quiet but direct as she stepped closer.
Tzuyu adjusted the strap of her bag and didn’t answer right away. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, eyes fixed on the trail. “I didn’t get to tell my parents.”
Chaeyoung slowed her pace and turned around. “Tell them what?”
“About the diagnosis. About... all of it.”
Jeongyeon’s steps faltered slightly, and Chaeyoung went still.
“I was going to,” Tzuyu continued. “I had it planned. I even wrote it down in a letter I’d send them. But I kept putting it off. I thought I had time.”
Her voice was soft, but Jeongyeon could hear what was buried beneath it. The pressure in her chest, the self reproach that clung like a second skin.
“They’ve always been so... traditional,” Tzuyu continued, her words coming out in a rush now, like a dam breaking. “They expect me to be perfect. To represent the family well. I was scared they wouldn’t understand. That they’d think I was...” She let the sentence hang.
She exhaled not knowing what else to do. “You were protecting yourself.”
Tzuyu glanced at her. “Or maybe I... I was just afraid of disappointing them.”
“No,” Chaeyoung said, stepping closer. Making sure Tzuyu would hear her well. “You’re not a disappointment, Tzuyu. Not to us, and not to them either—not if they really know you. You’re brave, and you’re doing everything you can to survive. If your parents could see you now, they’d be proud.”
Tzuyu’s eyes flickered, but she didn’t argue. She just looked forward again.
“I wish I could talk to them,” she said after a pause. “Really talk to them. Not as the person they expect me to be. Just... as me. I wish I could... explain everything.”
Jeongyeon felt a tightness in her throat. She didn’t know what to say to that—because the truth was, she didn’t know if any of them would ever have that chance.
Chaeyoung broke the silence, her voice firm yet soft. “You will,” she said. “One day, you’ll get to tell them. We’ll get through this, Tzu. And when we do... you’ll have that chance.”
Jeongyeon nodded, “And until then, we’re your family.” She said, her tone mimicking Chaeyoung´s “Whatever you need, you come to us.”
Tzuyu didn’t answer right away. Instead, her steps grew a little slower, more thoughtful, and she gave a small nod the way she always did when words felt too heavy.
The path narrowed ahead, forcing them into single file.They didn’t say much else after that, Jeongyeon let her fingers brush a low-hanging leaf as they passed, grounding herself in the motion.
She had her own thoughts of home, her own grief tucked away. Her head full or regrets. But here, buried between the trees, it felt easier to ignore—easier to keep walking.
/////////
She leaned against the cave wall, her spine pressing into the cool, uneven stone as she stared out at the faint light slipping in through the opening. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, one foot absently nudging a loose pebble across the dirt floor. Nayeon crouched nearby, scratching lines—21— into the wall with a jagged rock. The scraping sound was persistent in her ears, echoing in the cramped space they shared.
Twenty one days. Three weeks. The mark in the stone looked no different than the others, but just looking at it... it was too much. It felt like too much.
Jeongyeon counted the days more by what they’d lost than what they’d survived.
Nayeon finally dropped the rock beside her with a soft clack and sat down next to Jeongyeon, her arms draped loosely over her knees. “Three weeks,” she said. “Still nothing.”
“Feels longer than that.”
The silence returned, and this time it wasn’t as easy to swallow. “Jeong... Can I tell you something?”
Jeongyeon turned to her, “Yeah. Of course.”
Nayeon’s eyes darted to the ground, her fingers tracing patterns in the sand. “I know we’ve talked about it. That no one’s coming.” She paused, her voice catching. “I know it. Deep down, I do. But I can’t stop hoping. I can’t let it go.”
She remembered well,—when they talked, just her, Nayeon, and Jihyo. The three of them tucked inside the shelter, watching the sun rise through the cracks. They’d shared the weight with Nayeon that morning, let her in on the truth because it was the right thing to do. But it hadn’t been easy—watching that spark dim in Nayeon’s eyes, watching hope slip away just a little.
Still, that was how it’d always been. The three of them. A team. Always standing guard, ready to protect the others from whatever came next.
Nayeon didn’t look at her. “Every morning I open my eyes and for a second, I expect to hear a helicopter. A shout. Anything. And then I realize it’s just birds. Wind. Us.” Her jaw tensed. “And I feel stupid. Like I’m lying to myself over and over.”
Jeongyeon watched her for a long moment before speaking. “It’s not stupid. And it’s not a bad thing to hope, Nayeon.”
Nayeon shook her head, her voice cracked. “But what if it’s? What if I can’t let go of it until it crushes me?”
Jeongyeon reached out, placing a comforting hand on Nayeon’s arm. “It’s not going to break you,” she said. “And even if it does, I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.”
Nayeon smiled weakly at that, but her gaze drifted back to the ground. “I’m scared, Jeong. I’m scared of what life here means. What if this is it? What if this is our forever?” Her voice dropped, barely a whisper. “I’m scared that maybe we weren’t meant to survive this. That trying so hard is what’s making it worse... That maybe... it would be kinder to let go.”
“Don’t.” Jeongyeon’s grip tightened. “You don’t get to say that.”
Nayeon flinched, not from the tone, but from the weight of it. Jeongyeon didn’t raise her voice—she rarely did. But when she spoke like that, it landed hard.
“You don’t get to give up,” Jeongyeon continued. “Not while the rest of us are still fighting. You’re allowed to fall apart, Nayeon. You’re allowed to be tired and angry and terrified. But we don’t stop. We keep moving. All of us.”
Nayeon blinked, her face tight with unshed tears. She looked away, trying to hold it in, but Jeongyeon reached over and gently turned her head back. “You don’t have to pretend with me, okay?”
A tear slid down Nayeon’s cheek. Then another. She wiped at them quickly, like she was embarrassed. But Jeongyeon didn’t look away.
“We’re still here,” Jeongyeon said softly. “That has to count for something.”
Nayeon gave a short, shaky laugh. “Yeah. I guess it does.”
They stayed quiet after that, letting the stillness wrap around them. From the mouth of the cave, the ocean stretched out endlessly, waves rolling in and out with a rhythm that didn’t ask anything of them. Every so often, a voice would echo faintly from the beach—mostly Sana’s. A bird flew low past the entrance once, close enough for its shadow to brush the edge of the cave floor. But they didn’t move. There was nothing urgent in that moment, just a pause in the middle of everything else.
“I just... I need you to know that I can’t do this without you.” She let the moment stretch again, just for a little bit. “I’ve been struggling too.”
Nayeon turned toward her. “With what?”
“With Jihyo,” Jeongyeon said, “With how everything feels so different now. She’s close with Sana. And with some others too. I thought I could handle it, but I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t know how to stop it from eating at me.”
“Out here... nothing make much sense. We’re trying to survive, and at the same time, we’re still... people. We still feel everything.”
“I want to be okay with it,” Jeongyeon said. “But I wasn’t built for this.”
Nayeon let her head rest against the wall, staring at the stone ceiling above. “Then maybe it’s not about becoming someone else. Maybe it’s just about learning to sit with the mess. To say, ‘This is how I feel right now,’ and letting that be enough.”
Jeongyeon’s hands clenched in her lap. “And what if I can’t sit with it? What if I want her to myself?”
“Then you say that,” Nayeon replied. “You tell her the truth. You don’t force yourself to be okay with something that doesn’t feel right to you. You figure out what love means to you, not what it’s supposed to look like.”
“I’ve never felt this unsure before. It’s like everything I believed in... is shifting under me.”
Nayeon smiled at her. “Then let it shift. Regret won’t change anything. What matters now is what you do with what you have. Remember the good things. Hold onto them. Let them push you forward, not keep you stuck.”
Jeongyeon breathed out slowly, her eyes still on the cave’s opening. Outside, the sky was beginning to shift—pale blue edged with fading gold.
“I don’t know what forward looks like anymore,” she said.
“None of us do,” Nayeon replied. “Just keep moving.”
Jeongyeon let out a breath and leaned back against the cave wall. Her eyes stayed on the dim light pooling at the entrance, but her mind was elsewhere, lost.
"You think I’m okay with everything," Nayeon said, breaking the quiet. "But I’m not. I just... got tired of pretending otherwise. And when everything else was stripped away, the only thing that felt real was how much I care about you all. About love. It's the only thing I haven’t let go of."
Jeongyeon didn’t respond right away. The sound of wind brushing against the cave entrance filled the space. "It’s not that easy for me," she said eventually. "I keep trying to part everything... What makes sense, what doesn’t. Who I’m allowed to love, how I’m supposed to feel. But this place... it doesn’t let you stay clean like that." She took a deep breath. “I just... I don’t know if I can be as brave as you, Nayeon.”
Nayeon smiled, leaning her head against Jeongyeon’s shoulder. "You’re braver than you think, Jeong. You just haven’t realized it yet...Just stop running from it. Sit with it. Let it hurt if it needs to."
Jeongyeon laughed at her without much humor. "You should write that down."
"Too much effort," Nayeon said with a shrug, nudging her lightly. "But I’d let you be my editor."
Jeongyeon smiled, a real one this time. "I’d probably rewrite half of it."
"Then you’d be perfect for it," Nayeon said, getting to her feet and brushing the sand off her legs. She extended a hand. Jeongyeon hesitated before taking it.
As they walked back toward camp, their fingers laced for just a few moments before Nayeon let go. Ahead, Dahyun and Tzuyu were heading toward the cave. Nayeon’s expression turned mischievous.
"Hey," she called out, loud enough for them to hear. "Don’t worry—we’ll keep the others away for a bit. You’ve got at least an hour."
Tzuyu stopped mid step, eyes wide. "Nayeon!"
Dahyun groaned and swatted Nayeon's arm on her way past. "Can you not?"
Nayeon laughed, and Jeongyeon found herself laughing too, the tension in her chest loosening just like it always did.
Jeongyeon felt Nayeon give her hand a final squeeze before letting go and wandering off toward Sana, who was seated on the other side of the camp. Her eyes followed Nayeon’s back before drifting to Jihyo by the fire, quietly tending to dinner. The flicker of flames reflected in Jihyo’s eyes, and the sight stirred that same something that she’d been afraid to let herself feel, to embrace the chaos of her emotions. But now... now she felt ready to try.
Her heart pounded as she made her way over. Jihyo glanced up as she approached, her warm smile bringing a calmness to Jeongyeon’s stormy thoughts. "You two look like you were scheming."
Jeongyeon didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Instead, she crouched down next to Jihyo, her heart racing. And before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in.
Their lips met softly at first, light, like the first drops of rain before a storm. Jihyo froze in surprise for a moment, her eyes widening, but then Jeongyeon felt her relax, her hand coming up to cup the back of Jeongyeon’s neck. The kiss deepened, their movements synchronizing naturally, like they had been waiting for this moment without realizing it.
Jeongyeon poured everything into that kiss—her fear, her longing, her hope. It was slow, her lips moving against Jihyo’s with a tenderness she hadn’t known she was capable of. She felt Jihyo sigh softly into her mouth, her grip tightening as though she didn’t want to let go.
Time seemed to stop. The crackling of the fire, the distant sound of waves, the murmurs of the other girls—all of it faded into the background. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a bubble of emotion so raw and so real that Jeongyeon felt like she was floating.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other’s, their breaths mingling in the space between them. Jihyo’s eyes searched Jeongyeon’s, wide and filled with surprise.
“I...” Jihyo started, but Jeongyeon cut her off with a small, nervous smile.
"I’m not there yet," Jeongyeon said, voice quiet. "But I’m ready to try. If you’ll have me in this. However this looks."
Jihyo smiled and cradled her face in both hands. "Of course I will."
Jeongyeon’s body relaxed as she folded into Jihyo’s arms. The fire crackling beside them, the world around them falling away once more. She’d finally stopped running.
And she couldn’t believe how good it felt to stay.