Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After all the sleepless nights, caffeine-fueled breakdowns, and quiet moments of self-doubt—plus a little nepotism from being the niece of the university’s events director, Celine—Rumi had finally done it.She was going to Seoul University.

Not just any school. Her dream school. The one she had drawn in the corner of her notebooks since she was fifteen. Where some of the best artists, designers, and K-pop idols of the decade had studied. Where she could finally be her, away from family expectations, small town gossip, and everything she’d spent the last year trying to forget. She stared at her acceptance letter for the hundredth time that week, tucked between the folds of a beat-up sketchbook in her lap. She was on the bus, one stop away from her new life.

And yet… her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Her phone vibrated.

[Seoul University P.S.A.]
Due to an unexpected increase in housing demand, Traditional Style residence is now the only dorm available for claim. We apologize for the inconvenience.

Rumi blinked at the screen. Once. Twice. Then clicked the dorm portal again. The waitlist numbers were dropping fast. “No, no, no,” she whispered, pulling out her laptop like her life depended on it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
50-person communal bathrooms? Thin mattress pads? No AC?

Absolutely not.

She scrambled for her phone, thumb flying across the screen as she scrolled for the one person who might save her.

[Jinu] yesterday at 3:46pm

[Rumsicle]
“JINU I DIDN’T GET A DORM AND I AM NOT SHARING A BATHROOM WITH 50 GIRLS”

Jinu called instantly, his voice already halfway through a laugh. “Okay, Rums. Breathe. I literally saw a post from one of Abby’s friends this morning—”

“Send it!” Rumi hissed, laptop dangerously close to sliding off her thighs as she leaned forward. “NOW. JINU. THERE’S. NO. TIME.”
“I’m sending it, I’m sending it,” he chuckled. “But maybe read it first? I don’t know—like—see if they’re serial killers?” Rumi barely heard him. Her phone lit up with the message, and she was already tapping the link before he finished.

Looking for a roommate ASAP.
3BD apartment near campus.
Must be clean, LGBTQ-friendly, and chill.
Message if interested.

Attached was a blurry but oddly aesthetic photo of a living room filled with paintings and pictures, a large grey couch, and a girl in the background with black hair styled into space buns, eating cereal straight from the box.
There was no time to overthink it. Her thumb hovered for a split second before she hit Apply. The screen froze. A buffering circle mocked her. “Come on,” she muttered, bouncing her leg.

A single bead of sweat rolled down her temple as she stared at the loading bar. Her lip tucked itself under her teeth, brows pinching inwards. Please please please please—

You’ve been accepted! Your new roommates will reach out shortly. She let out the kind of breath people usually saved for surviving election results.

The apartment looked even better in person.
Or maybe it was just the wave of cold AC and lavender-scented air that hit her in the face when she stepped through the door, sweat clinging to her collarbones. Her arms ached from dragging her suitcase up three flights of stairs in August heat, and she was one water bottle away from passing out.

“Hey! You made it!” A voice chirped from somewhere behind a jungle of potted plants near the window. “You must be Rumi!”

Rumi turned—and froze.The girl from the cereal photo was standing barefoot in the kitchen, wearing black short-shorts and a baggy crop top that read “MILFS > Finals.” Her dark hair was down in space buns, a chopstick hanging out of one like a sword. Her smile was wide and warm, like sunshine in human form.
“I’m Zoey! So nice to finally meet you!” She reached out a hand, but then laughed and pulled Rumi into a hug instead. “You’re even cuter than your profile picture. Do you wanna see your room or do you need a drink first? Or a nap? Or like—an emotional support donut?”
Rumi fell quiet, taken aback by the burst of every Zoey seemed to carry. “Uh water is fine but I should really unpack” she said, looking down and the suitcase and carry on occupying her hands.

Zoey met her gaze, “OMG, is that seriously all you brought? I mean better control and less mess?” She giggled while grabbing a glass.

“Mira’s going to love you.”

“No this is just my necessities, the move-in truck comes tomorrow with the rest of it.” Rumi awkwardly said. “And who’s Mira?”
“My girlfriend,” Zoey said casually, handing her the drink and hopping onto the kitchen counter. “She’s the other half. You’ll meet her soon. She had an internship thing this morning but she’s on her way back. She’s chill. Looks scary. Isn’t. Totally a sweetheart once you get past the wall.”

Before Rumi could reply, Zoey’s phone buzzed. “Oo voice message from the sweetheart herself.”

[Cutiepie❤️🥰]

||On my way. Zoey, don’t scare her off.”

Zoey peeked at the screen upside down and smirked. “Too late.” Rumi smiled softly as Zoey took the suitcase from her hand and showed her to her room. Rumi could get used to this, Zoey is overly hyper but she’s nice and genuine which isn’t really something she was used to.

Her room was the one on the right—small, cozy, and full of natural light. A mattress was already propped in the corner, waiting to be fluffed and made. The closet was surprisingly spacious. A cupboard hung above the desk with leftover push pins, and the windows had a soft blush-pink tint from sheer curtains that fluttered in the breeze.

Zoey plopped onto the floor beside her suitcase and started unzipping it without hesitation. “Ooh, this is cute,” she said, holding up a folded pajama pants with cartoon teddy bears and choo choo trains. “Rumi’s got taste.” Rumi smiled sheepishly, “That was a gift from my aunt.” “Even better. Aunts always give the best cozy clothes. Mira says mine dress me like I’m still twelve, but honestly? Valid.”

Rumi sat beside her, crossing her legs and starting on the next zipper. “So how long have you and Mira been together?”

“Mm,” Zoey hummed, thinking. “One and a half years? Ish. But we’ve known each other since high school. We started out in the same dance crew, then Mira ditched the group for hip hop and made me cry in a Starbucks.”
Rumi chuckled softly and continued listening to Zoey retell their love story.

Zoey reached for another handful of clothes. “You’ve got a lot of purples and greys in here.”
“I like the way it looks on my skin,” Rumi said, almost shyly. “It makes me feel… soft. Comfortable.” Zoey looked up at her, eyes flickering briefly over her purple hair, her diamond stud earrings, the pink-toned gloss on her lips. “Yeah. It suits you.”

Rumi dropped her gaze to her lap, fingers twitching. “Thanks.” For a moment, they just folded in silence. It wasn’t awkward—just… warm. Natural. The quiet hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional crinkle of fabric filled the space between them. Rumi let herself breathe a little slower. “Do you want these in drawers or hung up?” Zoey asked eventually, holding up a blouse. “Um, hung up,” Rumi said. “Oh—wait, I think I brought the wrong hangers.”

“No stress,” Zoey said, already standing. “We’ve got extras. Mira’s lowkey a minimalist, and I steal all the good ones anyway.”
She disappeared down the hall. Rumi looked around her half-full room, heart still fluttering.
She hadn’t expected to feel this… welcome. This early. Zoey returned with a bundle of velvet hangers and a bag of mini clothespins. “Also brought you these little guys if you wanna hang your art or notes or whatever. Mira uses them for polaroids but you’re not allowed to tell her I took some.”

Rumi’s heart jumped. “You didn’t have to—”
“Rumi,” Zoey said with mock-seriousness, dropping the hangers on the bed, “you’re one of us now. Which means you’re stuck with my excessive gift-giving and unsolicited decorating help.”

“…You like giving gifts?” Rumi asked.

“Love it,” Zoey grinned. “Especially when people don’t expect it.”

Rumi laughed softly. “I guess I’m gonna be easy to spoil then.”

Zoey wiggled her brows. “Careful. I take those words very seriously.”

The teasing settled between them like bubbles. Sweet and light, maybe this can actually turn into an amazing friendship.

Zoey was in the middle of mock-dramatically arranging Rumi’s plushies on the bed like they were royalty when the front door creaked open. Rumi froze mid-laugh. The sound of keys landing in a dish echoed faintly through the apartment, followed by the soft thud of sneakers being kicked off. A pause. Then slow, deliberate footsteps made their way down the hall.

Zoey’s face lit up. “That’ll be Mira.”
The name made Rumi sit up straighter, fingers smoothing down the hem of her long sleeved top before she could stop herself. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Then she saw her.

Mira appeared in the doorway like she’d stepped out of a damn music video — tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in loose gray sweatpants that hung low on her hips and a fitted black crop top that showed off a sliver of toned stomach. Her long, pink hair was left down and flowed to her hips. She had several rings, and a still-fading hickey just barely visible on the side of her neck. Her expression was unreadable. Calm. Maybe a little bored. But her gaze locked onto Rumi with quiet intensity — like she was sizing her up, or trying to read into her. Rumi felt her throat go dry. This wasn’t the warm, bubbly energy Zoey had radiated. This was… different. Mira didn’t need to speak to fill the room. She just was. Cool, confident, effortless in a way that felt impossible to match.

Then Mira turned to Zoey, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to her mouth. Slow. Familiar. Casual in a way that made Rumi’s heart stutter. Zoey melted into it like it happened every day—which, it probably did—but Rumi still found herself unable to look away. It wasn’t the kiss that got her. It was the way Mira’s hand lingered on Zoey’s waist after. The way she mumbled, “Missed you,” barely loud enough to hear. She quickly shook the feeling off and adjusted her top.

Zoey grinned, brushing her thumb over Mira’s lip. “You always miss me.” “You make it easy,” Mira said, and then—just like that—her attention snapped back to Rumi.“You eat yet?”
Rumi blinked. “Me?” Mira nodded, arms folded, still leaning slightly against the doorframe like she wasn’t planning to move until she got an answer. “Um. Not really.”

Mira gave a single nod. “Cool. I’ll order.”
Then she disappeared down the hall without another word. “…Okay,” Rumi muttered, her voice barely audible. Zoey turned to her with a soft laugh, clearly used to this routine. “You good?”

“She’s…” Rumi started, then gave up. “She’s a lot.”

“She is,” Zoey said proudly. “She’s also really soft once you get past all that cool, intimidating hotness.” Rumi just nodded slowly, unsure whether to be impressed, flustered, or terrified. Maybe a little of all three.

Chapter Text

By the next morning, the scent of toasted bread and chilli oil wafted from the kitchen.

 Rumi blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the soft lavender walls instead of the white dormitory ceilings she’d expected just days ago. She stretched and sat up on her spacious bed, her long purple waves were sticking to the side of her face, loose and unbrushed. Her arms instinctively tugged her long sleeves down over her wrists, a habit she’d mastered over the years.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Zoey, 

Zoey🌈🐢 – 9:03 AM

“Morning sunshine! 🌞 I’m in a super boring meeting for class rn 😒but the moving truck should be here any min!! Sorry I can’t help unload 💔 make Mira do it hehe~”

[see attachment]

Below it was a picture of Zoey in a bright pink hoodie, mid-eyeroll, her laptop open and a banana half-peeled beside it. Typical. Rumi couldn’t help but smile.

She padded out into the hallway, rubbing her eyes with her sleeve. Mira’s bedroom door was open slightly, but her room looked empty—neat, almost military in contrast to Zoey’s cluttered creative chaos. As Rumi stepped into the living room, she found Mira standing at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, knife in hand, slicing into a red pepper with practiced precision.

“Good morning,” Mira said, voice deep and low like velvet. Her tone was casual, but she glanced up, eyes sweeping briefly over Rumi. “You sleep okay?”

Rumi nodded, tucking a loose strand of her long, wavy purple hair behind her ear. “Yeah. The bed's actually really comfy.”

“Zoey insisted on that mattress,” Mira said, sliding the sliced pepper into a hot pan. “She said it ‘sparked joy.’”

Rumi chuckled. “Sounds like her.”

“Want some breakfast?” Mira asked. “I made eggs. Spicy. Hope that’s not a deal breaker.”

“Not at all,” Rumi said, surprised by how at ease she felt. “Thanks.”

As Mira handed her a plate, their fingers brushed. The contact was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through Rumi. She looked down quickly, willing the blush away. Mira didn’t seem fazed—just turned back to the stove.

They ate in comfortable silence for a bit. Rumi glanced at Mira from time to time, noting how effortlessly she moved. Mira looked so composed, so confident, her long pink hair tucked behind one ear, her shirt slightly cropped above a pair of low-slung grey sweatpants.

“How do you look that put together before ten a.m.?” Rumi blurted before she could stop herself.

Mira raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Psych major. I study people. Starts with observing yourself.”

Rumi blinked, half-impressed, half-embarrassed. “Oh. That’s…cool.”

“Literature, right?” Mira asked.

Rumi nodded. “Yeah. With a minor in fashion history. I know, weird combo.”

“Not weird,” Mira said. “Just layered.”

Before Rumi could respond, the sound of a truck backing up made them both glance toward the window.

“Oh my god—my boxes,” Rumi muttered, hurrying to the front door.

Outside, the moving truck was parked awkwardly across the curb. A man in overalls waved at her with a clipboard in hand.

“Rumi Ryu? Got about eight boxes for you. Where do you want them?”

“Uh—inside?”

He chuckled. “You got help?”

Rumi hesitated. “Sort of—”

“I’ll help,” Mira said, already pulling on sneakers.

“You sure? I can try—”

“You shouldn’t lift that much with ramyeon arms,” Mira teased, smirking over her shoulder. “Let me.”

Rumi opened her mouth to protest but… okay, maybe she did struggle carrying more than one pile of clothes at a time yesterday. She followed Mira out, flustered but grateful.

Together, they started unloading the boxes. Mira took the heavier ones without hesitation, biceps flexing as she carried them inside. Rumi trailed behind, grabbing the lighter ones. At one point, their hands landed on the same box and their fingers brushed again. Rumi looked up—Mira was already looking at her.

“I got it,” Mira murmured, voice low.

“I can help—” Rumi started.

“I know,” Mira said, not letting go yet. “But let me take care of it, yeah?”

Rumi’s chest felt tight for a moment, but not in a bad way. She stepped back, nodding. “Okay.”

They stacked the boxes in Rumi’s room. The door was cracked open, letting the morning light pour in. Mira bent over to set a heavy one down by the desk, and Rumi caught herself staring before quickly turning to unseal one of the others.

Inside were picture frames, a few paperbacks, and a worn, stuffed rabbit that peeked out from under a scarf. Mira glanced at it and smiled.

“Old friend?”

“Since I was four,” Rumi admitted, cheeks pink. “He’s… seen things.”

“That bunny probably needs therapy.”

Rumi laughed. “Maybe we can get him a session.”

Mira offered a small but genuine smile to her as they finished unpacking in silence.

After what seemed like an eternity they finally finished and relaxed on the couch. Just then, Zoey’s door creaked open and she popped her head out, still in pajama shorts and a turtle bucket hat, her cheeks puffed out with a bite of muffin.

“Hey, how’s the muscle team doing?” she asked around a mouthful.

“Do you even own pants?” Mira asked, deadpan.

“Only the ones I steal from you,” Zoey winked. “Meeting’s over, by the way. I’m emotionally drained. Someone hold me.”

Rumi laughed again, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Zoey flopped dramatically onto the couch and held out her arms.

“No one? Rude.”

Mira rolled her eyes but sat next to her, letting Zoey lean into her side.

“You get everything in okay?” Zoey asked Rumi, eyes bright.

“Thanks to Mira,” Rumi said. “She basically carried all my boxes.”

“Damn right,” Mira muttered.

Zoey grinned. “Told you she’s the mom of the group. She even cut the crusts off my sandwich once.”

“That was because you cried.”

“I was emotional!”

Mira smiled and placed a soft and gentle kiss to Zoey’s cheek and opened her arms welcomingly. “Come here.” Zoey threw her hands up in victory and leapt into her girlfriend’s arms. Rumi watched them and smiled, she’s never dated before or been around people who were in love; so this is all new to her. But she doesn’t mind it one bit.

Zoey threw a blanket over all three of them and grabbed the remote. “Okay, we are watching something iconic to mark this sacred moment. Roomie bonding time.”

“Not another frog documentary,” Mira said flatly.

“You loved Frog Kingdom! You cried when they built the lily pad school.”

“I was tired.”

“You sobbed,” Zoey said, grinning. “Anyway—no frogs. I was thinking Kiki’s Delivery Service or Jennifer’s Body. Something soft or really gay.”

“Those are not even remotely the same vibe,” Mira deadpanned.

“That’s the point,” Zoey said, already scrolling through the options.

Rumi hugged a pillow to her chest, settling into the corner of the couch. “I vote Kiki. I could use a comfort movie.”

Zoey gave a triumphant gasp. “Finally, someone with taste.”

Mira gave an exaggerated sigh but didn’t protest. She shifted slightly so her knee brushed Rumi’s—accidental, probably, but Rumi felt her heart jump anyway. She didn’t move.

As the opening scene played and soft music filled the room, Zoey sighed contentedly and leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder. Mira rested her arm along the back of the couch—close enough to Rumi’s neck to make her hyper-aware of every movement.

Warmth settled in Rumi’s chest. Not the kind that burned too hot or overwhelmed—but the kind that made her think: maybe this was the start of something.

What? No. What was she thinking? It’s the start of a friendship…because that’s what this is. Just an upcoming friend.

As Kiki took to the skies on screen, Zoey whispered, “We should totally get a cat. Like a little goth one.”

Mira didn’t look up. “Only if it’s not named after a Studio Ghibli character.”

“Too late,” Zoey smirked. “Its name is Jiji.”

Rumi laughed softly, tucking her knees up under the blanket. “I like Derpy”

Zoey gasps and turns to Rumi like she’d just discovered an unlimited cereal glitch. “RUMI YOU ARE A GENIUS I LOVE THAT” 

Rumi blushes slightly and gives a soft smile to Zoey as she continues to rant about how much she loved that name.

Maybe moving in had been scary. But here, tucked between Mira’s quiet steadiness and Zoey’s bubbly chaos, things didn’t feel so terrifying after all.

Chapter Text

The morning sun spilled through the thin curtains in soft, golden streaks. The apartment was still quiet—too quiet. Zoey’s eyelids fluttered open, her brain sluggish but aware of the unfamiliar calm. Mira was already gone.

Zoey blinked, disoriented for a moment, then saw the small, folded note on the bedside table where Mira’s side of the bed had been just moments ago. Her fingers brushed the paper as she sat up, careful not to disturb the sleeping warmth of the blankets.
Gone for a workout. Back with breakfast. Don’t wait up. Love you. —Mira

Zoey smiled softly, heart tightening with a warmth that felt like both comfort and something else she couldn’t quite name.

She turned and buried her face in the pillow, lingering on the faint scent of Mira’s shampoo still clinging to the sheets. For a moment, she allowed herself to feel safe—like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Then the nagging knot of worry crept back into her chest.

The first day of classes was tomorrow.

And Zoey’s mind wouldn’t stop circling around the conversation she’d had with her parents over the past week—her mother’s sharp disappointment, her father’s quiet support, and the pressure she was still trying to hide behind her usual bubbly, carefree mask.

Zoey slid out of bed, pulling her oversized sweatshirt over her head. Her toes curled into the soft rug as she padded silently to the kitchen, careful not to wake anyone. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of the city waking up beyond the windows.

She poured herself a glass of water, staring out at the pale morning light filtering through the window. Her thoughts drifted back to the argument she’d had with her mom.

“We’ve already paid so much for your art degree,” her mother had said, voice strained with frustration.
“You can’t just change your mind now, Zoey.”
Her dad’s words had been gentler but no less firm.
“Follow your dreams, Zoey. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
He’d smiled softly, trying to lift the weight she was carrying. But even with that support, Zoey felt torn, like she was standing between two worlds. And could no longer live two lives or play both sides.

Zoey lingered by the window longer than she meant to, her fingers tight around the cold glass. She looked down at her sweatshirt—it was Mira’s, big and soft and smelling faintly of detergent and something warmer, something safe—and tucked her arms tighter into it.
She didn’t hear the soft shuffle of footsteps until it was too late to look like she hadn’t been spiraling.
“Oh—hey,” Rumi’s voice was low, still dusted with sleep. She was dressed in long sleeves again, like always. Pale lavender cotton hugged her arms despite the warm summer morning. Her wavy purple hair was tied into a messy braid that draped over her back, brushing past her waist in soft sways.

Zoey nearly dropped her glass.

“Hey,” she managed, spinning to face her with a crooked smile. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Rumi shook her head gently, eyes scanning Zoey’s face. “You didn’t. I just couldn’t sleep much.”

Zoey offered her a weak smile and tried to pivot the moment. “First day jitters?”

Rumi gave a short laugh. “Something like that.” She walked past Zoey to the sink, filling a mug of water with careful movements. Her fingers trembled slightly. Zoey didn’t miss it.

They stood there for a moment in that not-quite-awkward silence. It wasn’t heavy, just uncertain. Zoey tapped her nail against the rim of her glass.

“You, uh… excited about your lit classes?” she asked.
Rumi turned to her with a soft blink, surprised. “Yeah,” she said. “Kinda nervous, though. I have a habit of… overworking myself.” Her mouth quirked to one side, trying to make it sound like a joke.

Zoey leaned back against the counter. “Ugh, same. I’ve got like six different planners and still manage to forget I’m alive some days.”

That got a tiny chuckle from Rumi. Zoey grinned wider, chasing the sound.

“I bet your planners are colour-coded,” Rumi teased gently.

Zoey gasped. “You say that like it’s a crime. Organization is sexy.”

That drew a proper laugh from Rumi—small, bright, and so rare that Zoey felt her chest tighten.

For a minute, things felt okay again.

But then Zoey’s smile faded, and her voice dropped. “Do you ever feel like…you’re not doing the right thing? Like, you made a choice and now you’re just… stuck with it?”

Rumi looked at her, her own lightness dimming a little. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “All the time.”

Zoey stared at her for a moment—really stared—and then her walls cracked.

“I want to switch majors,” she blurted, eyes suddenly shiny. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I just—Mira doesn’t even know yet. My mom lost her shit when I told her I was thinking about marine bio. Like it was a betrayal or something.”

She let out a bitter laugh and wiped her eyes quickly, annoyed at herself. Rumi’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She just stepped a little closer.
“My dad said to follow my heart,” Zoey went on, words spilling faster now. “But I keep thinking—what if I waste all that money? What if I switch and then I still fail? What if I let everyone down?”

Silence fell between them again. Rumi reached out, hand hovering like she wanted to touch Zoey’s arm but thought better of it. Instead, she gave her a soft look that said everything. “I don’t think following your dreams is ever the wrong choice,” she said gently. “Even if it’s… scary. Even if people don’t get it.”
Zoey blinked at her. “How are you so calm all the time?”
“I’m not,” Rumi said with a sheepish laugh. “I just… hide it well.”

Zoey swallowed, eyes still locked with hers. For a second, something shifted. The room felt warmer, closer. She noticed the faint shine of water on Rumi’s bottom lip. The light curve of her lashes. The way her hand had almost touched her. And Rumi—Rumi noticed how close they were standing. Her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. Her sleeves felt suffocating suddenly, like armor she couldn’t take off. She folded her arms tighter across her body, one hand clutching the other sleeve.

Zoey stepped back slightly, like if she was waking from a spell cast by the beautiful woman in front of her.
“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”
“No,” Rumi said quickly. “I’m glad you told me. Really.”
Another silence. Not awkward. Just full.
Then a loud ding from Zoey’s room made them both flinch.

Zoey groaned. “Crap. I have that virtual meeting with my advisor.”

She turned to head back but looked over her shoulder. “Thanks, Rumi. For… y’know. Being here.” Rumi nodded, cheeks pink. “Anytime.”

Zoey decided against turning around for a hug, and instead she disappeared into her room, leaving Rumi alone in the kitchen, heart racing and mind spinning.
She pulled her sleeves down further over her hands and stared at the sunlight now blazing through the windows. Her fingers itched, but not from anxiety—from something else.

It felt dangerous, the way Zoey had looked at her. Or maybe she was just overthinking it?

Yeah that has to be it… my mind is just a little stressed for my first day tomorrow

Rumi sighed and drank the rest of her water before retreating back to her bedroom.

The sound of keys jingling in the lock broke the stillness of the apartment. The door creaked open, and Mira stepped inside with a takeout bag in one hand and a water bottle slung from the other. A sheen of sweat still clung to her collarbones beneath her black cropped hoodie, and her long pink hair was pulled up in a messy bun that somehow still looked good.

She slipped her sneakers off with practiced ease, glancing around the quiet apartment. It was still early—barely 8:30—but the stillness told her Zoey might’ve gotten some extra rest, and Rumi was likely in her room getting ready for the day. Mira exhaled quietly through her nose, then padded to the kitchen, setting the bag of breakfast containers down on the counter.

“Yo, breakfast’s here,” she called out casually, voice low and even.

No answer at first—until Rumi peeked around the corner from the hallway, already dressed in a long-sleeved gray top tucked into high-waisted shorts. Her damp purple hair framed her face, loose and wavy, like she hadn’t had time to do anything more than towel-dry it. She looked tired. And jumpy. But still soft around the edges.

“Morning,” she murmured, brushing a hand through her bangs as she stepped into the kitchen. “Smells good.”
Mira gave her a faint smile and snapped her eyes away from Rumi’s figure to pop open one of the containers. “Got congee, veggie dumplings, and some bao. Hope you’re okay with sharing.”

Rumi blinked. “Wait… this is from Saja’s Flavours, right?” Mira’s brow lifted. “Yeah. You like it?”

Rumi nodded, eyes widening a little. “Are you kidding, that's like my favourite! I haven’t had breakfast from there since… before I moved here.”

Something about the way she said it made Mira pause. She didn’t pry, but the way Rumi’s hands fidgeted at her sleeves didn’t go unnoticed.

“I figured you’d still be asleep,” Mira said, changing the subject smoothly as she handed her a pair of chopsticks.

“I was up early,” Rumi replied, taking them. “Couldn’t really sleep.”

Their fingers brushed—brief, unintentional—and Rumi’s shoulders tensed slightly. Mira caught it, eyes flicking down to where their hands had touched, but she said nothing. Just passed her a napkin like nothing happened.

Zoey’s door creaked open down the hall, and she emerged with her hair piled in a chaotic bun, one sock on, the other foot bare.

“Is that dumplings I smell?” she yawned dramatically.
“Would you like a napkin with your stolen food, or are you planning to just raw dog the bao?” Mira asked without turning around. Zoey gasped. “How dare you. I’m a woman of taste.” She reached over to kiss Mira on the cheek—until Mira turned her head just in time to catch her lips instead. Zoey made a satisfied little noise, lips still soft and sleep-warm.

Rumi glanced away politely and busied herself with her congee.

Zoey leaned her chin on Mira’s shoulder. “Thanks for breakfast, baby. You’re the best.” Mira huffed, “You only say that when I bring food.” Zoey grinned. “Not true. I also say it when you take your shirt off.”

Rumi choked on a sip of tea and covered her mouth fast. Zoey blinked innocently at her. “Oh my god, are you okay?” “I’m fine,” Rumi coughed, cheeks glowing.
Zoey giggled, circling the counter to wrap Rumi in a loose hug from behind. “You’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.” Rumi turned even redder but continued to eat her food slowly.

Mira took a sip of her water, hiding her amusement behind the rim. There was something entertaining about watching Rumi flail. She was sweet—not Zoey sweet, really—and Mira could already feel the tug of protectiveness that made her heart ache if she thought about it too long.

They settled into an easy rhythm after that, sitting around the kitchen island with mismatched mugs of tea and breakfast containers. Rumi relaxed slowly between bites, encouraged by Zoey’s unfiltered chatter and Mira’s quiet steadiness.

The sound of a phone ringing interrupted the chatter from Zoey. Rumi flushed and grabbed it quickly glancing at the screen before frowning, “Excuse me, sorry I need to take this” Zoey smiled and nodded as Mira stood up and took everyone’s mugs. Zoey lingered by the sink while Mira rinsed out the mugs. The sound of running water filled the quiet between them.

“Hey,” Zoey said, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the faucet. Mira glanced at her, then shut off the water and grabbed a towel. “What’s up?”

Zoey hesitated, fiddling with the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. “I didn’t want to dump it on you first thing this morning, but… my mom called again last night. Still on me about switching majors.”

Mira’s jaw tensed slightly. “She give you a hard time again?” Zoey gave a small shrug, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. But—” she softened, “It’s okay. I actually talked about it with Rumi earlier. She helped me feel… less crazy about it.” Mira paused mid-dry, turning to study her. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Zoey nodded. “I’m okay for now. Just wanted you to know.” Mira didn’t say anything right away, but the way her hand moved to Zoey’s waist, pulling her in gently, said enough. She pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring, “Let me know if that changes.” Zoey leaned into her for a second longer than usual. “I will.

Rumi slipped into her bedroom and shut the door quietly, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Rumi.” Celine’s voice was crisp, as always—polished like glass, sharp enough to cut. “You finally answered.”
“I’ve been busy,” Rumi said softly, sitting on the edge of her bed. She ran her fingers along the hem of her sleeve, already tugging it over her wrist even though no one could see her. “Classes start tomorrow.”

“Yes, I know.” There was a pause. “And I hope you’re being mindful of how you present yourself. First impressions matter, Rumi. Especially when you’re trying to leave the past behind.”Rumi swallowed hard. “I am. I’m doing fine.”

“Fine isn’t good enough,” Celine snapped, and Rumi flinched. “You have a fresh start—no one there knows you, and that’s a blessing. So be smart about who you let close. If people find out about… the things you’ve done, the damage you’ve caused yourself, they will look at you differently. You know that.”

Rumi’s chest tightened. She hated how easily her aunt’s words slithered in—how they echoed the fears already rooted in her.

“I haven’t told anyone,” she said quickly, her voice small. “Good,” Celine replied, satisfied. “Keep it that way. You’ve worked too hard to build a future to let your past drag it down. You’re lucky you even got into that school after everything.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Your mother would’ve never let it get this far. She would’ve been devastated if she saw you like that.”
Rumi felt the sting crawl up her throat like acid. Her hands were trembling now, but she curled them into fists and focused on breathing.

“I should go,” she whispered.
Celine’s voice softened—falsely, like a switch flipped. “Just remember, Rumi. People only stay when they don’t see the mess.”

The line went dead.

Rumi stayed frozen for a moment, phone still in her hand, a scream pressing at the back of her throat but never making it out. She leaned back onto the bed, arms curled around herself like a shield, and let her gaze drift to the ceiling.

The warmth from earlier—Zoey’s laughter, Mira’s calm—it all felt like it had happened to someone else. A version of her who didn’t have anything to hide.
But she did.

And no matter how much they smiled or cared… they didn’t know.

They will never know.

Chapter Text

The rest of the day flew by smoothly. Rumi made every effort to tune out the memories of the call with her aunt. She found herself stuck helping Zoey pick an outfit for the first day, while Mira made sure they had everything packed and went to sleep on time. Rumi struggled to fall asleep, despite her various attempts, her mind reeling from slight touches made throughout the day. To the quick glances and small subtle smiles. Rumi had no idea why she was acting like this, but whatever it was, had to wait until tomorrow.

The next day, the scent of eggs, something spicy, and a hint of toasted bread filled the apartment before the sun had even fully crept through the windows. Mira stood at the stove, hair up in a loose bun, flipping something in a pan with the sort of serene efficiency that made mornings look easy. She wore her usual oversized tee and fitted joggers, the sleeves pushed up as steam curled around her wrist, glasses sitting low on her face.

“Smells like hell,” came Zoey’s groggy voice, muffled and dramatic from down the hall.

Mira didn’t even look up. “That’s rich coming from someone who begged for breakfast yesterday.”

Rumi emerged from her room quietly, still in her pajamas and the unmistakable sluggishness of someone questioning every life decision that led to 8 a.m. classes.

“I thought I was being smart,” she mumbled, eyes barely open as she crossed the kitchen. “I thought morning classes would free up my afternoons.”
Mira raised a brow and finally glanced over. “And how’s that working out for you?”

“Regret,” Rumi deadpanned, slumping onto a barstool at the counter.

Zoey shuffled in moments later, hair a mess and hoodie three sizes too big, dragging her feet like each step was a personal betrayal. She dropped onto the stool next to Rumi and flopped dramatically onto the counter. “Why did I do this to myself?”

Mira placed a plate of scrambled eggs, kimchi, and toast in front of her. “You only have morning classes once a week, Zo. You’ll live.”

Zoey groaned, her cheek smooshed against the counter. “Yeah but it’s today. Today is the worst day ever.”

“You say that every morning you have to be up early,” Mira muttered, setting down a second plate for Rumi, whose eyes lit up slightly despite her energy being close to nonexistent. The plate was arranged neatly—Mira had already noted she didn’t like her food touching too much.

Zoey lifted her head enough to speak. “You’re too perfect in the morning. It’s unsettling. You’re like…a sexy morning cryptid.”

Mira blinked slowly. “Thanks?”

Rumi choked slightly on her toast, surprised by both the joke and the weirdly sincere compliment.

Zoey shot her a lazy grin, clearly not entirely awake but proud of herself. “Right? Like, if the Babadook cooked breakfast and had great arms.”

Rumi found herself smiling again as Zoey picked up her fork with the enthusiasm of a man being faithful to his wife. “I’m too tired to chew,” she whined, mouth full anyway.

“You’re literally chewing right now,” Mira said flatly, sipping her coffee.

“I’m doing it under protest.”

Rumi smiled into her mug, the warmth of the tea in her hands helping her stay upright. “Why did you even sign up for a morning class?”

Zoey blinked at her, completely serious. “Because I thought I could be a morning person. I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

Mira smirked as she leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “And what have we learned?”

Zoey held up a finger. “Never trust morning-me. She makes terrible decisions and thinks she’s better than she is.”

“I’ll remember that the next time you try to sign up for a sunrise yoga class,” Mira murmured.

Rumi bit back a giggle. “You signed up for yoga?”
“She didn’t go,” Mira added.

“It was a phase!” Zoey argued. “A moment of weakness! I thought if I had a mat and cute leggings I’d be transformed.”

“You were transformed,” Mira said dryly. “Into a liar.”
Zoey pouted, then leaned toward Rumi with a conspiratorial whisper. “Mira has a vendetta against my growth.”

Mira turned to Rumi and mouthed, “I made her overnight oats every morning that week”

“She made you overnight oats every morning that week?” Rumi said unsure, sipping her tea. “That…doesn’t sound like sabotage.”

Zoey gasped. “You’re turning on me too?!”
Rumi gave a small, sly shrug. “I mean… she has a point.”

Mira tried not to smile too obviously, but Zoey saw it and narrowed her eyes.

“Y’all are lucky I’m too tired to fight,” she muttered. “I’ll remember this slander when I rise from the ashes at noon.”

“You’re not a phoenix, Zo,” Mira said.

“I’m a sleepy, gay phoenix,” Zoey mumbled dramatically, head sinking back to the counter. “Who just wants boba and better life choices.”

There was a pause. Then Rumi glanced at Mira. “Should we tell her it’s Monday?”

“Let her find out on her own,” Mira said, turning back to the stove. “Natural consequences.” Zoey groaned again, dragging her hand down her face like a cartoon villain melting.

After breakfast with the girls and a shower, Rumi neatly braided her hair, with practiced skill and precision. She carefully decided on dark blue denim jeans, with a forest green long sleeved crop top. She applied a light gloss to her lips, followed by 2 layers of mascara to her eyelashes, before grabbing her bag and leaving the room. Rumi still had not completely shaken last night’s feelings, but she knows it’ll go away soon…it’s just her unfamiliarity with physical touch—right?

By the time they were all ready to leave, Zoey had managed to brush her hair, change outfits twice, and spill a little oat milk on one of her socks. She stood near the door now, holding her tote bag like it weighed the same as her will to live.

“I look fine, right?” she asked no one in particular, tugging the hem of her sweater for the fourth time.
“You look cute,” Mira said automatically, adjusting the strap of her own backpack. “Just don’t fall asleep in class.”

“No promises,” Zoey yawned.

Rumi lingered by the mirror near the entryway, smoothing her sleeve carefully. The fabric brushed against her forearm and she winced internally—still too aware of the scars hidden beneath. She caught Zoey’s reflection approaching and tensed ever so slightly when Zoey reached for her arm again.

But this time, Zoey only looped her arm through Rumi’s and leaned into her lightly, resting her head on her shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here, y’know,” she mumbled, eyes barely open. “You make mornings feel less evil.”

Rumi’s breath caught a little. She didn’t pull away, even though the warmth of Zoey’s body so close made her skin feel too tender. She smiled softly, touched but unsure how to respond.

Then, quietly from behind them, Mira said, “Zo, you’re gonna be late.”

Zoey groaned but didn’t move yet. “Miraaaa,” she whined. “Rumi’s warm and I’m emotionally fragile.”
“I’ll make you lunch later and buy those cheese puffs you like,” Mira bribed gently.

That got her moving.

As Zoey slipped her shoes on with a dramatic sigh, Mira stepped closer to Rumi. She moved with that casual kind of ease that always seemed so controlled, so deliberate. Her gaze flicked over Rumi’s face—still soft with sleep, a little anxious around the eyes.

“You good?” Mira asked low enough that only she could hear.

Rumi nodded, biting her lip. “Just… first day jitters.”
Mira smiled faintly. “You’ve got this. You’re smarter and braver than you think.”

That made Rumi blink. She hadn’t expected that. The compliment settled in her chest like warmth pooling there. Before she could say anything, Mira turned and held the door open, motioning them out.

Zoey was already halfway down the hallway, muttering about her tragic fate. Mira locked the door behind them while Rumi caught up, fingers brushing the strap of her bag with nervous energy.

As they walked side by side down the street, Mira’s hand briefly hovered near the small of Rumi’s back—guiding her gently away from a cyclist that zoomed too close on the sidewalk. It was subtle but…thoughtful.
Rumi didn’t say anything. But she felt it. And she didn’t stop thinking about it the whole way to class.

The classroom was bigger than she expected. Beige walls, bright lights, desks with perfectly carved edges arranged in rows and columns. Rumi had taken a seat near the window, hoping the sunlight would keep her awake—or grounded, maybe.

The professor was talking about literature as a mirror of the self. Something about how we read to understand ourselves better.

But Rumi was barely listening. Her notebook lay open, pen poised, but her mind had drifted far from metaphors and structural analysis.

Instead, she was thinking about the way Zoey had leaned on her this morning. Not just physically—but emotionally, too. The sleepy vulnerability. The softness. That damn smile.

She swallowed and shifted in her seat.

It didn’t mean anything. Zoey was just affectionate with everyone. That was her thing. It was probably nothing.
Right?

But then Mira. Mira, who never touched without intention. Mira, who saw too much. Who spoke rarely but always precisely—like earlier, when she said,
You’re smarter and braver than you think.
It had settled in Rumi’s chest like a tiny flame still flickering.

God.

She rubbed her thumb against the edge of her notebook. Focus. She needed to focus. She glanced at the professor again, who was now quoting some poem about identity and longing. As if the universe had decided to echo her mess of emotions out loud.

Her eyes dropped to the quote in the presentation slide:

“I am made of layers I do not yet understand.”

Rumi stared at it. Something about that line hit too close. There was this weird aching pressure behind her sternum—like her body knew something her brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

She blinked and stared at her own handwriting, the neat loops of her name in the top corner of the page. Rumi Ryu, written in the same cautious, tidy way she always used. Measured and careful.

That was the thing, wasn’t it? She was always so careful.

She thought she’d figured herself out already. Her past. Her future. She knew what to expect from people and what to withhold from them. She had boundaries, walls, self-protective rules.

But Zoey… made her feel seen in a way that was bright and sudden and real. And Mira—Mira made her feel safe in a way that scared her more than anything else.
Because safety meant trust. And trust meant risk.
Her stomach twisted. She tapped her pen lightly against the page.

Maybe she was overthinking everything. Maybe they were just being nice. Maybe she was just tired. It was only the first day.

But the confusion didn’t leave her. It lingered, threading itself through every sentence the professor said. And when class ended, her notes were half-empty, her thoughts a tangled mess.

Rumi stepped outside into the light again, heart unsettled and face neutral—like always.
But inside? Inside, something had started to shift. And she was petrified.

The apartment was quiet when Rumi stepped inside, the soft click of the lock echoing a little too loud in the stillness.

She let the door shut behind her, slung her bag off her shoulder, and stood there for a moment—just breathing.
It felt weird being the first one back. Usually, Zoey’s voice would be bouncing off the walls, or Mira would be humming low under her breath in the kitchen. But now it was just her and the soft hum of the fridge.

Rumi peeled off her shoes and padded into the living room, her feet sinking into the soft rug. She glanced toward the hallway—all three bedroom doors were shut. Empty.

She exhaled, her shoulders finally sagging under the weight of the day. She hadn’t realized how tense her body had been until now.

Her classes had been… fine. Normal. But she’d felt off all day—floaty and restless and distracted in a way that made her feel like she was orbiting something she couldn’t name.

That moment in class, staring at that quote, had stuck with her like a splinter.

“I am made of layers I do not yet understand.”

She chewed the inside of her cheek, wandering into the kitchen without really thinking. Opened the fridge. Closed it again.

There wasn’t anything she wanted—just movement.
She caught sight of herself in the microwave reflection. Purple waves a little messy. Tired eyes. A faint flush on her cheeks from the walk home.

There was a part of her that wanted to lie down and sleep. Another part that wanted to pace. To do something, anything to ground herself.
Instead, she walked into the shared living space and dropped onto the couch with a soft thud, hugging a pillow against her chest.

The silence was heavy, but it was better than noise right now. Better than hearing her own name spoken in that affectionate, sleepy tone Zoey had used that morning. Better than remembering Mira’s eyes on her at breakfast.

She bit her lip and closed her eyes for a moment.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d come here for a clean start. For space. Freedom.

Not for this fluttering warmth in her stomach every time Zoey grinned at her. Not for the way Mira’s voice made her feel steady, like something solid in a world that kept spinning.

Not for the confusion curling around her ribs every time she felt herself start to want.

The front door rattled faintly. Voices—Zoey’s, bright and sing-songy, and Mira’s quieter murmur trailing behind.
Rumi sat up too fast, heart leaping into her throat before she could stop it.

She wasn’t ready to see either of them. And yet, here they came.

She quickly straightened the couch pillow and tucked her hair behind her ears, willing herself to stay neutral. To act normal. To breathe. But how could she when her definition of normal had just been crumpled up and thrown? How could she breathe with the familiar scents infiltrating her nostrils? Rumi knew she had to get it together, and it had to be fast.

Chapter Text

The apartment door clicked open, and Zoey stumbled in first, dramatically flopping forward like she had barely survived the journey from campus.

“MY BONES,” she groaned into the floor.

Mira followed calmly, one brow arched as she shut the door behind them. “You’ve been up since… seven.”

“Seven a.m. Mira,” Zoey moaned without lifting her face. “Morning Zoey is not a real person. She’s a ghost. A myth. A tragic Victorian orphan child who died in colour theory.”

Mira stepped over her sprawled form and toed off her sneakers. “You were literally painting fish for half the class.”

“And yet,” Zoey said, finally lifting her head and peering into the living room. Her face lit up like a bulb. “OMG RUMI—YOU’RE A GENIUS! COUCH DAY?!”

Rumi, curled up at one end of the couch with a pillow in her lap and her phone in hand, startled at the sudden volume. “Uh—yeah. I mean, I just got home not long ago and figured I’d—”

Zoey launched herself onto the couch beside her. “This! This is the energy I needed. Brain empty. Couch warm. Nothing matters except the perfect movie and, like, 3000 calories in carbs.”

Rumi gave her a small smile, heart still fluttering from the surprise. She could still feel the heat from Zoey’s last glance the other night, even though Zoey didn’t seem to remember—or maybe she was just that good at pretending. Either way, Rumi tried to keep her breathing steady.

Mira walked past them into the kitchen. “So we’re doing a movie day/night on a Monday now?”

Zoey twisted around dramatically, draping herself across Rumi like a bored cat. “Not a movie night. A celebration. Our first full day of classes is over, we’re alive, and my body needs rest after that inhumane early class.”

“You had one class,” Mira called back flatly.

Rumi, cheeks warm from the sudden contact, shifted ever so slightly but didn’t move away.

“Exactly!” Zoey said. “One too many. I deserve comfort, popcorn, and an emotional support pillow. Rumi counts.”

Rumi made a noise halfway between a laugh and a squeak. Mira glanced up from the kitchen, her eyes flicking briefly to Rumi and then to Zoey draped over her. There was no outward change in her expression, but something about the way she moved a little more quietly, the way her hands stilled on the counter, made Rumi wonder awkwardly rub her shoulder confused.
Zoey sat up with a bounce. “So! Movie suggestions. I say we watch something artsy and chaotic with deep trauma and hot people with bad outfits.”

“No,” Mira replied immediately.

Rumi blinked. “Wait—what movie is that?”

“It’s every movie Zoey loves,” Mira said dryly.
Zoey gasped. “RUDE!”

“I saved you from another ‘tragic French ballerina with anxiety’ plotline,” Mira said.

“That movie was brilliant, and her trauma was valid!” Zoey cried, then turned to Rumi with sparkles in her eyes. “Back me up.”

Rumi looked helplessly between the two of them. “I mean… ballerinas can be stressed?”

Mira smirked. “You two go ahead and pick something while I order the pizza. Pepperoni okay?”

Rumi smiled softly and nodded in agreement
Mira turned the corner then jolted back, “Oh and I’m vetoing any films that involve interpretive dance trauma or prolonged eye contact set to indie violin.”

Zoey pouted dramatically as Mira disappeared into the kitchen, but the atmosphere stayed light. Rumi exhaled, surprised at how easy it had felt to exist between them just now. Her body was still alert, still waiting for something to go wrong—but her shoulders had dropped a fraction. That had to count for something.

They ended up half-cuddled, half-sprawled across the couch together while flipping through movie options. Zoey’s arm slung loosely over the back of the couch behind Rumi, fingers occasionally brushing Rumi’s shoulder, her pinky curling close every so often. It wasn’t intentional—probably—but each accidental graze sent a spark down Rumi’s spine.

She tried not to notice the way Zoey looked at her when she laughed.

Eventually they settled on a cheesy horror movie with bad effects and worse acting since Beyoncé winning AOTY at the grammy’s—Zoey’s choice, obviously.
Mira emerged with a box of pizza in one hand and a cup of ginger tea for herself in the other. She handed the bowl to Zoey, then passed a smaller cup to Rumi—green tea with two spoons of honey and a dash of cinnamon, the way Rumi liked it.

Rumi blinked at the drink, surprised. “You remembered?”

Mira shrugged, eyes on the screen. “It’s a simple recipe, so it’s not that hard.”

But Zoey grinned, nudging Rumi with her elbow. “Mira remembers everything. Really living up to the mom of the apartment role. With, like… sexy therapist vibes.”
Mira let out a low, unimpressed sound but didn’t deny it.

They piled together on the couch. Rumi had just settled deeper, sandwiched between Zoey and Mira, the warmth of them making it embarrassingly hard to think straight. Zoey’s arm was around her waist, Mira’s thigh was pressed along her own, and the movie on the screen barely registered anymore.

Then her phone buzzed in her hoodie pocket. She blinked, pulled it out.

Jinu 💀[FaceTime Incoming…]

Shit.

She hesitated—but Zoey had already peeked over and gasped playfully. “Oooh, who’s Jinu?”

“It’s just a friend,” Rumi mumbled, cheeks already heating up as she accepted the call and held the phone close to her face to hide how cuddled-up she was.

“RUMSICLE,” Jinu’s voice boomed through the speaker, his camera angled terribly as usual, mostly showing his forehead. “Why didn’t you text back? Did you di—wait.” He squinted, and then tilted his head. “Are you cuddled up right now??”

Rumi blinked. “No??”

“You liar!” Jinu shouted, cackling. “Is that someone’s arm behind your neck? Are you being spooned live on camera right now?! WHO ARE YOU?!”

Zoey burst out laughing, absolutely delighted, while Mira smirked silently but didn’t move away.

“I’m not—shut up!” Rumi hissed, trying to adjust the phone so less of the blanket (and Zoey’s suspiciously visible hand) could be seen. “It’s not like that.”
“Ohhh it’s exactly like that. You’re all cozy and flushed and—oh my god you’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“Hi, Jinu!” Zoey chimed in cheerfully, poking her head into the frame. “I’m Zoey. She’s adorable, isn’t she?”
“I KNEW IT!” Jinu screamed. “She’s got a crush—oh no, wait—crushes.”

Mira came into frame dishing Rumi out a slice of pepperoni pizza.

“Okay, goodbye,” Rumi snapped, mortified, and hung up before he could scream anything else embarrassing.
She buried her face into the nearest pillow, which happened to be Mira’s arm.

Zoey was giggling, and Mira simply raised an eyebrow. “He’s… lively.”

“Remind me to block him later,” Rumi muttered into her sleeve.

Zoey was still giggling, but the sound faltered just a bit as she adjusted her grip around Rumi. Her smile softened, a touch too composed. “So… Jinu, huh?”

Rumi glanced over, catching something unreadable flicker in Zoey’s eyes. It was gone almost instantly, replaced with her usual sunny expression—but the shift was small enough to notice.

“Oh—no, no,” Rumi said quickly, sitting up straighter, her hands fluttering as if to physically wave away the misunderstanding. “He’s been my best friend since forever. We did try dating once in high school but… it didn’t work. It was weird. Like—like kissing your brother.”

Zoey blinked, then laughed—this time a little more genuinely.

“So it’s strictly platonic?” she asked, casual but quiet.
“Very,” Rumi confirmed. “He’s more like my chaotic sibling than anything. He knows every embarrassing thing about me. It’s…horrifying.”

Zoey grinned, that familiar sparkle returning to her eyes. “Good. I mean—not good that he has blackmail material—but good that it’s… platonic.”

There was something there. Something unsaid and a little warm, just under the surface. Mira didn’t say a word, but her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary on Zoey before returning to the movie and taking a bite of her pizza.

Rumi, flustered and a little breathless from the tension that she hadn’t expected to rise from such a harmless FaceTime, pulled the blanket tighter over herself.

“This has to be the best couch day in history” Zoey said, as she laid her head on Rumi’s shoulder.

“Wait until she makes this a national holiday” Mira turned to Rumi smirking.

“OMG BABY THAT IS GENIUS! COUCH DAY IS OFFICIALLY EVERY WEEK” Zoey gave her an enthusiastic smile before turning back to the screen, her fingers still gently curled against Rumi’s side.

The trio laughed together, and even though the lights were low and the movie was playing, Rumi could feel her heartbeat pressing just beneath the surface.

Zoey’s eyes stayed on the screen, but she wasn’t really watching anymore.

She could still feel Rumi’s warmth pressed into her side, even through the blanket. Her hand was resting barely an inch from Rumi’s ribs, rising and falling with each steady breath. It should’ve felt casual. Friendly. Just roommates cuddling on a couch after a long day.

But it didn’t.

It felt… familiar in a way that wasn’t fair. Dangerous in a way that made her chest tighten.

The way Rumi had looked at her earlier—surprised and soft and slightly flustered—it kept replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t shut off. And now, hearing her talk about Jinu like that… the relief Zoey had felt shouldn’t have been so strong. She didn’t even realize she’d been jealous until she wasn’t anymore.

What are you doing, Zoey?

She snuck a glance at Mira, sitting close by. Her girlfriend. Her rock. The person who kissed her forehead in the mornings and held her hand during nightmares. The person who’s never thought she was too much or too little. And yet.

There was Rumi, curled against her side like it was the most natural thing in the world. And Zoey wanted to protect her. Make her laugh. Hold her a little closer.
The guilt slid in slow and sharp.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She loved Mira. She wasn’t confused about that at all. But the love and feelings she has for her girlfriend is now being shared with her roommate. Zoey felt ashamed, she felt like the worst girlfriend ever. But what could she do about it? Distance herself from Rumi? Hell no. Tell Mira how she’s feeling. Maybe?

She swallowed hard and forced herself to focus on the movie and to stay still.

One thing at a time, Zoey.

And today? Today was just couch day.

Even if her heart was suddenly plummeting in her chest.

They ended up watching 7,000 two second videos about turtles facts and biology after 16 Wishes ended.

Yeah…seven thousand.

The “movie” had ended a while ago, and the apartment had grown quiet, save for the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft rise and fall of Zoey’s breathing where she lay curled up against Mira’s side. Zoey had found her way in the middle to ensure both girls weren't missing a second of the two seconds per clip montage. Her head had slipped from Rumi’s shoulder at some point, settling into Mira’s lap instead, and Rumi had gently extracted herself to give them space.

Rumi watched the scene from the kitchen doorway—how Mira was gently brushing a few strands of black hair from Zoey’s face, gaze tender and calm. The warmth in the room made something ache in Rumi’s chest.

She didn’t realize she was standing there for so long until Mira carefully shifted Zoey’s sleeping form into her arms, lifting her with ease.

“I’ve got her,” Mira said softly, meeting Rumi’s eyes briefly as she passed. There was something comforting in the strength of her—steady and sure.

Rumi lingered by the kitchen for a beat before heading to her room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

She’d barely sat down on the bed when footsteps padded back down the hall. Instinctively, Rumi pulled her sleeves further down, fingers clutching the fabric tight just as Mira appeared in the doorway.
Their eyes met.

Mira’s gaze flicked downward for a split second—just long enough to catch the movement.

Her brow creased. “Can I come in?”

Rumi hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Mira stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. She didn’t sit at the edge of the bed, but near the middle—close enough to feel present, but not imposing.

“I know we haven’t spent a ton of time together yet,” Mira said carefully, watching Rumi’s face, “but… if something’s going on, you can talk to me. You know that right?”

Rumi shook her head a little too quickly. “There’s nothing going on. I’m just tired. The first day was exhausting that’s all.”

Mira tilted her head, clearly unconvinced. “Rumi…”
“I promise.”

A pause. Mira’s expression was unreadable for a moment—then she sighed through her nose, nodding slowly.

“Okay. I won’t push.” She leaned back slightly, studying her with something closer to quiet concern than suspicion. “But I can’t shake the feeling that you’re hiding something. Just know, when you’re ready—I’m here.”

Rumi looked down, her grip on her sleeve loosening just barely. “…Thanks.”

The silence stretched for a moment. Then Mira stood, hands sliding into her sweatpant pockets.

“I’ve got morning classes tomorrow too,” she said. “Wanna walk together? Might be nice to survive it with someone else.”

Rumi blinked, surprised—but nodded. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

“Cool. I’ll knock around seven?”

“Okay.”

Mira offered her a soft smile, one Rumi felt all the way down to her chest, and let herself out, closing the door with a gentle click.

Rumi exhaled shakily.

The soft click of her door closing sounded louder in the stillness of her room.

Rumi sat there, unmoving, Mira’s words echoing in her ears.

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re hiding something.”
Her stomach twisted.

Had she slipped up? Was she not as careful as she thought? The way Mira’s eyes had darted to her sleeves, the slight pause in her voice—did she know?

Rumi stared down at her hands, fingers still gripping the hem of her hoodie like a lifeline. She’d been so diligent. Always sleeves. Always long shirts. Never changing in front of anyone. Avoiding questions, dodging touch. Every move calculated to the tea.

But Mira was different. Mira noticed things.
She was a psych major after all. She read people like books.

What if she knows?

The thought made Rumi feel nauseous. It wasn’t just fear of being exposed. It was the shame. The vulnerability. The idea of someone like Mira—collected, steady, effortlessly cool—pitying her, seeing her as broken.

No. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t risk them leaving her.

She doesn’t know for sure. She’s just guessing. You’re okay. You’re still in control.

The voices in Rumi’s head were loud.

But even as she told herself that, she could still feel Mira’s eyes lingering, her calm, probing voice asking questions that got too close.

Rumi pulled her legs up and curled into herself on the bed, burying her face into the pillow.

Maybe she’d been wrong to think she could keep this part of herself hidden forever.

But that didn’t mean she was ready for anyone to see it.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

Chapter Text

The soft knock on Rumi’s door came at exactly 7:00 a.m. Not a second earlier or later.

Mira stood in the quiet hallway, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms, a faint line between her brows as she waited. She could already hear movement inside—shuffling, the telltale thump of someone nearly tripping over a bag or shoe, and the light click of the door lock turning.

When Rumi opened it, Mira offered her a small, neutral smile. “Morning.”

Rumi blinked at her, still dressed in her oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep. She looked half-surprised and half like she’d forgotten how mornings worked.

“I figured I’d make breakfast,” Mira said simply, nodding toward the kitchen. “Anything you feel like eating?”

Rumi rubbed at her eye. “Um… anything is fine. I’m not picky.”

Mira gave a slight nod and tilted her head. “Alright. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Rumi mumbled something that could’ve been a thank you and backed into her room, door clicking shut once more.

As Mira padded into the kitchen, the quiet was almost meditative. The morning light hadn’t fully risen yet, but a pale glow trickled in through the blinds, painting the counter in soft blue-grey hues. The silence was only broken by the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the apartment settling.

She moved automatically, pulling ingredients from memory—eggs, green onions, bell peppers, a slice of tomato, bread for toasting. Mira had always cooked like this. Not from a recipe, but from a quiet sense of care. The kind of cooking where you thought more about how someone would feel eating the meal than how perfect it turned out. She cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking gently, her thoughts drifting despite herself.

It had been a weird few days.

She liked Rumi, really. Quiet, polite, observant. A little too tense sometimes, but Mira understood that. Hell, she’d spent her first year of undergrad thinking every noise in a dorm hallway meant someone was about to break in and scream about American politics.

But Rumi wasn’t just anxious. She was… guarded. More than just shy. Mira had only known her for a short while, but there were moments—flinches that didn’t make sense, glances that darted too quickly, silences that lingered too long.

And then there was Zoey.

Mira poured the eggs into the warm pan, watching them sizzle softly.

Zoey had always been affectionate. That wasn’t new. Mira fell in love with her that way—warm hands, unexpected hugs, the kind of person who didn’t just give love but radiated it.

But lately… there was something else there. Something Mira couldn’t quite name.

She’d caught the way Zoey looked at Rumi when she laughed. Had seen the way she touched her—not just casually, but instinctively. Like it was second nature. A hand on Rumi’s knee. Her pinky brushing against Rumi’s when they passed popcorn. The way she leaned into her, even when Mira was right there.

None of it had seemed bad. Mira didn’t want to be possessive or weird. She trusted Zoey. Loved her. But she’d also learned a long time ago that you could trust someone and still feel your gut twist when they looked at someone else a little too long.

She sprinkled salt over the eggs and flipped the slices of tomato in the other pan. The toaster clicked quietly behind her.

Last night had made it worse. Mira wasn’t blind—she’d seen the shift in Zoey’s expression after that FaceTime call. The flicker of jealousy. The hesitation when she asked about Jinu. It was subtle, sure. Maybe even something Zoey hadn’t fully realized herself.

But Mira had. And she didn’t know what to do with that yet.

She plated the eggs and toast with quiet precision, adding the tomato slices and a few sautéed greens on the side. She didn’t bother garnishing—it was too early for that kind of aesthetic performance—but she did slice Rumi’s toast diagonally and added a dash of pepper the way she’d seen her do once before.

Rumi exited her room a few minutes later, wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Her hair styled into her classic singular braid; makeup was almost nonexistent—light concealer, mascara and a touch of gloss she’ll definitely be reapplying after breakfast. 

Mira raised a brow as you vertically looked at her. “Rumi I’m pretty sure today’s heat is going to be excruciating. Are you sure that’s what you’re wearing?”

“Yeah I’m used to it.” Rumi replied, eyes staring at the floor the entire time. Mira mouthed an “ok” before putting two plates of food on the table, along with a cup of tea and coffee.

“Thanks,” she said softly, sitting down at the island. “It looks really good.”

Mira muttered a “thanks” and sat down across from her.

They ate in silence.

Rumi didn’t talk, and Mira didn’t push. The only sounds were forks clinking gently on ceramic and the distant hum of a lawnmower from outside.

Still, Mira watched her from the corner of her eye—noticing how Rumi sat slightly angled away, like she was keeping a physical buffer even though the island was small. How she only made eye contact when she had to. How her hands stayed mostly hidden under the table, thumbs pressing into the edge of her sleeves as she chewed.

Mira didn’t speak, but her thoughts were busy.

Does Zoey really have a crush on Rumi?

-

The morning air was cool and crisp when they stepped outside, the campus still a little sleepy around the edges. Mira adjusted the strap of her bag as they fell into a quiet rhythm, walking side by side. They didn’t speak much at first. Mira didn’t mind silence, but something about this one felt… loaded. She glanced over a few times, trying to read Rumi’s profile—sharp but soft, like the pages of a book that had been dog-eared one too many times. There was something about the way she carried herself. Quiet confidence on the outside. Something else beneath.

She wasn’t trying to interrogate her. Not really. She just wanted to understand.

And maybe, on some level, she wanted to know what Zoey saw in her.

“So,” Mira said finally, voice low, “How has your stellar decision of picking morning classes been working out for you?” 

Rumi gave a soft huff. “I thought I’d like the freedom of having the rest of the day free. Turns out, I hate the sun before nine a.m.”

Mira cracked a small smile. “Relatable.”

They walked a few steps in comfortable quiet, the sound of their shoes on pavement the only noise between them. Mira watched a leaf drift down from a nearby tree, then glanced back at Rumi again.

“You close with Jinu?” she asked casually.

Rumi shot her a sideways look. “Why?”

Mira shrugged, keeping her tone neutral. “Just making conversation. Last night he seemed… invested.”

Rumi laughed softly, almost like she didn’t mean to. “He’s like that with everyone. We’ve been best friends since I was eleven.”

“You mentioned you dated once?”

“Very briefly. It was a mistake. He’s too loud. Too—him. I need more quiet.” She hesitated, eyes flicking to Mira and then away. “I’m not really… dating anyone.”

Mira nodded slowly. She didn’t respond right away, but something about the way Rumi had said it stuck in her chest.

They turned a corner near the business building, the path still mostly clear except for a cluster of guys ahead—loud, laughing, reeking of Axe body spray and overconfidence. Mira clocked them without much thought. Rumi barely looked up.

That was her mistake.

One of the guys wearing cargo shorts, backwards cap, the usual brand of arrogance—reached out casually as they passed and smacked Rumi’s ass, muttering a low, “Damn, ma.”

Rumi flinched and Mira froze.

The boys kept walking, chuckling amongst themselves.

“Yo,” another one said, glancing back at Rumi. “You and your girl tryna double up?” Another boy snickered, “Look at her top in this weather” The first laughed and said, “The one on her, or beside her?” 

Mira’s brain clicked over into something cold.

She turned slowly. “What did you say?”

The one who spoke blinked, caught off-guard by her tone. “Relax, it was a compliment.”

Mira’s expression didn’t change. Her voice stayed low, even. “Touch her again and I’ll snap your wrist backwards.”

The guy raised both hands, laughing nervously. “Yo, chill. No need to go full psycho.”

“She’s not yours, man,” the first guy said, eyes raking Rumi again. “Just appreciating.”

“Appreciating,” Mira repeated, deadpan. “Right. Do you appreciate breathing too?”

They paused.

“Because you’re about three seconds from not doing that anymore.”

The second guy blinked. “Dude, it was a joke—”

“Then here’s the punchline: keep. walking.”

There was something in her stare that could kill a man. And they must’ve felt it, because after a beat of stunned silence, they did. No more laughter. Just awkward shuffling and a muttered “crazy bitch” under their breath as they disappeared down the path.

Mira didn’t move until they were gone.

When she turned back, Rumi was frozen.

“You didn’t have to—” Rumi started.

“I did.” Mira’s jaw was tight. “You shouldn’t have to laugh that shit off.”

Rumi looked down, sleeves tugged even tighter than before. “It’s easier if I do.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

There was a beat of silence.

And then Rumi, voice softer than before, murmured, “Thanks.”

Mira didn’t say you’re welcome. She just nodded once, hands shoved into her pockets like she was trying to keep them from shaking.

Because the truth was… if that had been Zoey, Mira would’ve done the same thing.

But this didn’t feel the same.

It felt worse.

It felt personal.

And Mira didn’t like what that might mean.

-

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it was thick. Rumi’s arms stayed wrapped around herself, her pace slower. Mira kept glancing at her, unsure if she should speak.

She tried.

“You okay?” she asked, quieter this time.

Rumi hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I just…” Her voice thinned. “I hate when guys think they’re owed access to you. Like existing in their line of sight is an invitation.”

Mira hummed in agreement. “It’s disgusting.”

They walked a little more.

“I used to think it was a compliment,” Rumi said suddenly, voice brittle with self-awareness. “Like—if I didn’t get that kind of attention, I wasn’t desirable. But it never made me feel good. Just… small.”

Mira’s throat tightened. “That’s not what desire should feel like.”

Rumi looked at her then, eyes tired but sharp. “What should it feel like?”

Mira blinked.

And for a second, her brain stalled. Because the first image that popped up was Zoey—all bright eyes and soft hands and laughter like sunlight—and then Rumi—guarded, warm, a little untouchable but still… real. There was a gravity to her. Quiet and sharp.

What should it feel like?

Mira swallowed. “Safe,” she said finally. “It should feel… like you’re seen. Not just looked at.”

Rumi didn’t say anything, but something in her face shifted—like her wall lowering a notch.

They walked in silence again. A comfortable one, this time.

“You’re good with words,” Rumi said eventually, almost teasing. “I thought Zoey was the poet.”

“You know, reading people.”

Mira didn’t answer right away.

They were passing under a canopy of trees now, where sunlight filtered through the leaves in soft, flickering patterns. A breeze picked up, carrying the faint scent of early morning dew and distant coffee.

“I didn’t always think it was a good thing,” Mira said finally, her voice quieter than before. “Reading people.”

Rumi glanced over, curious.

Mira didn’t usually talk about herself. Not like this.

“I used to think it was just a survival thing,” she continued, eyes on the sidewalk. “When you grow up in a house where no one really pays attention to you—you start paying attention to everything else.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed, but she stayed quiet.

“My parents weren’t… cruel. Just cold. The kind of rich where they think buying you a car cancels out never showing up to anything. Always business trips. Nannies. Tutors. I wasn’t neglected, not in the way people think. I had everything I needed except… them and their love.”

She shrugged, like she could play it off, but her jaw clenched.

“They loved to remind me how much of a disappointment I was. Not in words, but in the way they looked at me. Like I was always going to be a problem they needed to manage. Something to fund, not someone to raise.”

Rumi’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry.”

Mira offered a small, crooked smile. “Don’t be. It’s just… why I got good at noticing things. Feelings are louder when they’re silent, you know?”

Rumi nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

And that moment—that—felt like something delicate forming between them. Like a wire being strung from one heart to the other. Not romantic, not yet, but rooted in knowing. In mutual ache. In quiet understanding.

“You’re not a problem,” Rumi added after a beat, voice gentle. “Just so you know.”

Mira looked over, startled. And for a breath, she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

No one had ever said that to her before outside of Zoey.

She let out a slow breath, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You either,” she said, voice low.

And this time, Rumi smiled for real.

They walked the last block in a comfortable silence—though Mira’s chest was anything but calm.

She hadn’t expected to say all that. Hadn’t planned to give away pieces of herself like that on a random Tuesday morning. But the way Rumi had listened—really listened—made it feel okay. Safer than usual.

At the entrance to the humanities building, Rumi paused, turning to her.

“I’m here,” she said simply, tucking a strand of purple hair behind her ear.

Mira nodded. “Right. I’ll see you after?”

“I doubt it, I have an intro to pattern dynamics after but I’ll see you at home.” Rumi offered a soft smile. “Thanks for walking with me.”

Before Mira could reply, the doors opened behind Rumi and a wave of students poured out. Rumi gave her a quick little wave and slipped inside, vanishing into the current of tote bags, coffee cups and voices.

And just like that, Mira was alone again.

She stood there a moment longer, staring at the space Rumi had just been. Something buzzed quietly under her skin—some invisible thread that hadn’t quite been cut.

She should’ve turned around and gone to her own class. Instead, Mira exhaled hard and dragged a hand through her hair.

What the hell are you doing, Mira?

The guilt from earlier rose in her throat again.

She hadn’t meant to share so much. Hadn’t meant to feel so seen by someone who wasn’t Zoey.

And god—for a moment there, she’d wanted to keep standing with Rumi like that. Wanted to reach out and—

No. She shook the thought off hard.

She loved Zoey. That wasn’t in question. But something in her gut twisted when she thought of the way Zoey had smiled at Rumi last night. The way she touched her. The way she looked like she glowed when Rumi laughed.

And now Mira had opened up to her too.

She shoved her hands into her pockets and walked briskly away from the building.

You’re spiraling, she told herself.

But the spiral didn’t stop.

Meanwhile, in her first class, Rumi sank into a comfy cushioned chair near the back of a literature lecture hall. The professor droned on about the syllabus and cultural intersections in literature, but all Rumi could think about was Mira.

The way she had looked at her.

The things she had said.

The way she’d offered that little broken part of herself and trusted Rumi to hold it without flinching.

Rumi had barely breathed the whole time.

And then the assignment hit:

“You’ll be writing a reflective piece due next week, connecting a moment in Korean history with a personal emotion. Not just research—but emotional reflection. What does grief feel like? What does longing look like? Tie it to something real. Something you’ve felt.”

Perfect.

Because Rumi had nothing but longing and regret rattling around in her chest lately.

The professor moved on to announce that their in-class writing prompt today would be a free-write on vulnerability.

Rumi’s heart dropped.

Her pen hovered over the page, her breath shallow.

She thought of Mira’s voice last night.

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re hiding something.”

Her stomach twisted.

Did Mira know?

Was that whole walk just Mira trying to get it out of her?

Rumi’s fingers clenched tighter around the pen.

She tried to write. She really did. But her thoughts were a thousand miles away.

Because if Mira did know—if she’d seen the scars or suspected them—then she would’ve left. Right?

Why else would she be so nice? So patient?

Pity.

The word turned to bile in Rumi’s mouth.

If she really knew, she’d look at me differently. Like everyone else does once they find out.

She shook her head, tugging her sleeves lower.

No. She doesn’t know. She’s just guessing. You’re still in control. You have to be.

But her heart was hammering too loudly for her to believe it.

-

Mira unlocked the apartment door with a practiced flick of her wrist and stepped inside to silence.

The door clicked shut behind her.

No music. No Zoey humming in the kitchen. No Rumi on the couch with her knees hugged to her chest. Just the hum of the fridge and the weight of everything Mira couldn’t name sitting heavy on her shoulders.

She dropped her bag by the door and stood there for a second, just breathing.

But the air didn’t feel like it reached her lungs.

She moved through the space slowly, mechanically, like if she sat still for too long her thoughts would catch up. They  already were.

The walk with Rumi replayed itself on loop, every beat of it sharper in hindsight. The boy’s hand on her. The flinch in her body. The way Mira had moved without thinking, ready to fight for someone she barely knew.

And then the way Rumi had looked at her. That look that made Mira feel like she’d been seen. Not just noticed. Not just appreciated. Seen.

God.

What was happening to her?

She should’ve just made polite conversation and left it at that. But no—she had to open up like some sad, lonely rich kid with daddy and mommy issues. What the hell had that been?

She rubbed her forehead and leaned against the kitchen counter, letting her head hang low.

I love Zoey. I’ve always loved Zoey.

But something in her chest ached.

They hadn’t had sex since Rumi moved in. And that wasn’t everything, obviously, but it meant something. Zoey was still affectionate—cuddly, warm, still showering her with random gifts and clingy midnight hugs. Still Zoey.

And yet.

Her eyes seem to look at Rumi the way they look at you.

Mira’s jaw tightened.

It wasn’t jealousy. It was fear.

Fear that something was shifting under her feet and she didn’t know how to stop it.

The bathroom door cracked open.

Steam curled into the hallway, and Zoey stepped out in nothing but her tiny towel—skin damp, hair piled on top of her head, and that usual Zoey air about her like the world was made to orbit her.

Mira blinked. Her brain short-circuited for a second.

“Oh—hii baby,” Zoey said brightly, not noticing the storm on Mira’s face. She padded toward the bedroom without a hint of self-consciousness. “You’re home early. How was your class?”

Mira took too long to answer.

Because God, she was beautiful.

And Mira loved her.

So why did her stomach twist at the sound of her voice?

Why did it feel like looking at someone you already missed?

Zoey turned slightly in the doorway, towel clutched loosely to her chest, eyes glimmering. “You okay?”

Mira straightened up. “I’m just tired,” Mira said, her voice a little too flat to be convincing.

Zoey paused in the hallway.

Then turned back.

“Liar,” she said, voice light but sharp around the edges. Not angry—just… tuned in. She padded back toward the kitchen in bare feet, towel still clutched casually in one hand.

Mira didn’t move.

She didn’t want to be read. She didn’t want to be soothed. But she also didn’t want Zoey to not come closer.

Zoey stopped in front of her, eyes searching her face. “You’re not just tired.”

Mira opened her mouth to respond, but Zoey reached out first—hands soft against her waist, slipping under the hem of Mira’s shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged there. Because it was. And she did.

Mira’s breath caught.

“I’ve seen tired,” Zoey murmured, stepping between her legs now tip toeing, chest to chest. “You’re… somewhere else. And I don’t like it.”

Mira’s hands found Zoey’s hips without thinking, fingers curling just slightly into the towel. The feel of warm skin beneath her palms hit her like a jolt.

Zoey leaned up and kissed her. Slow, but deep. Her lips still tasted like mint and her skin was warm from the steam of the shower.

Mira didn’t pull away.

Zoey made a small noise in the back of her throat—a desperate, clinging sort of sound—and suddenly she was pressing closer, wrapping her arms around Mira’s neck, tilting her head just so to deepen the kiss.

It wasn’t slow anymore.

It was needy.

Zoey kissed her like she was trying to remind them both of something. That Mira still made her heart race. That this, them, was still real. Still right.

Mira responded with equal hunger, her hands dragging down Zoey’s back, anchoring her closer. Their bodies fit like muscle memory—like a pattern they’d made a thousand times over. Mira pressed Zoey gently against the fridge, one hand slipping to the small of her back, the other bracing beside her head.

She kissed her like she was trying to erase the last week of confusion.

And for a few dizzying seconds, it worked.

Zoey gasped against her mouth. “Still got it,” she whispered, breathless, forehead pressed to Mira’s.

“You doubted that?” Mira murmured, voice low, teasing.

“No,” Zoey said, kissing her again, softer this time. “I just needed to feel it.”

Mira exhaled slowly through her nose, brushing her lips against Zoey’s cheek, her jaw, her temple. “Me too.”

Because she had felt something this morning. Something she didn’t want to feel.

But Zoey was here now—flushed, clinging, trembling slightly against her like she always had.

Mira kissed the corner of her mouth.

And still, something in her chest ached.

Because kissing Zoey felt good.

But it didn’t stop the memory of Rumi’s eyes when she smiled. Or the way her voice had softened when she’d said Mira made her feel safe.

Zoey’s hands slipped under Mira’s shirt now, palms splayed across her back, thumbs brushing her spine like she was rediscovering her body one piece at a time. She kissed the underside of Mira’s jaw and murmured, “I love you.” 

“I love you too Zo” Mira breathed.

And they did. God, did they love each other. So why did it feel like someone else should be standing here too?

-

The mid afternoon sun was warm against her back as she stepped out of the literature building, backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds halfway in but playing nothing.

She needed the quiet. Or at least, the illusion of it.

Her class had been fine. Objectively. The kind of fine that made her draw and identify 50 different patterns. The kind of fine that involved pages of assigned reading on Korean colonial history and a reflective assignment that asked, “What role does personal memory play in collective trauma?” 

She’d blinked at that prompt for almost five minutes straight, pen hovering above the page, before scribbling something vague and academic-sounding.

What role does personal memory play?

She didn’t want to answer that.

She didn’t want to think about Mira’s face this morning, or the way her words still echoed in Rumi’s head: “I can’t shake the feeling that you’re hiding something.”

The more she thought about it, the worse the knot in her stomach got.

If Mira did know—if she had any idea about the scars beneath Rumi’s sleeves—there’s no way she’d still be here. No one ever stayed after finding out the full picture. They either pitied her, tried to fix her, or slowly stopped looking her in the eyes.

She hugged her arms around herself and tried to focus on her footsteps.

Then her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen.

Jinu 💀 incoming call…

A reluctant smile pulled at her lips despite herself. She swiped to answer and put her other earbud in her ear.

“Hey, weirdo.”

“RUMI-LICIOUS,” Jinu sang, way too loud. “Back from the land of the oppressed literati?”

She snorted. “Barely. I think my prof wants us to have an existential crisis before week two.”

“Hot. We love a crisis. Let’s unpack it over milk tea and excessive oversharing.”

Rumi turned a corner, smiling a little more for real now. “You’re already oversharing and I haven’t even said anything.”

“Okay but I have important news. Guess who made eye contact with the barista today and didn’t immediately trip on air?”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I DID. AND I ordered a macchiato like an adult. Rumi, I’m growing.”

She laughed. A real one. “Wow. This changes everything. Do I need to buy you a suit and a tax accountant?”

“Only if I can name the accountant something unnecessarily sexy, like Lorenzo.”

Rumi shook her head, weaving through a group of students on the sidewalk. “You’re insane.”

“Accurate. But you sound tired. What’s up?”

Rumi hesitated.

She could lie. She could make a joke. That was what she usually did. But her heart was still rattling in its cage.

“…Nothing. Just been a weird day.”

Jinu didn’t push.

He never did.

Instead, he hummed in thought. “Is this a Zoey-weird or a Mira-weird?”

Rumi froze for half a second. Then kept walking. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, please. You think I didn’t notice the weird tension in your voice when I FaceTimed you on the cuddle couch of doom?”

She flushed instantly. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, it was exactly like that. Mira was feeding you pizza. Zoey was practically spooning you. I’m not an idiot.”

“She was not, she was just dishing it out for me…” Rumi’s voice trailed on.

“Hey,” Jinu said, voice softening just slightly. “It’s okay if you’re catching feelings, you know. Doesn’t mean anything has to happen. But bottling it up? That’s how you implode.”

Rumi stared down at the sidewalk, the wind tugging at the ends of her sleeves.

She didn’t want to implode.

She didn’t want to fall either.

“I don’t know what I’m feeling,” she said quietly.

Jinu was quiet for a beat.

“Then just feel it,” he said eventually. “And I’ll be here. No matter what.”

Rumi closed her eyes for a second, letting the breeze pass over her face like a reset.

“…Thanks,” she whispered.

“Anytime, Rumsicle.”

They said their goodbyes as she ended the call just before reaching their street.

The moment Jinu’s voice was gone, the silence wrapped around her like a too-tight sweater.

She shoved her phone into her pocket and tugged her turtleneck sleeves down again in discomfort, sweating from the heat. The sun was at its peak, radiating unforgivable warmth. But only one thing was on Rumi’s mind.

You think I didn’t notice the weird tension in your voice when I FaceTimed you…

Of course he noticed. Of course she noticed. How could she not?

Zoey’s hand on her waist. Mira’s voice in her room. The fluttery feeling in her chest like something alive, like something wrong.

Because it was wrong. Wasn’t it?

That’s what Celine would say. With her perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect judgement. She’d said it a hundred different ways without saying the word gay once.

“You’re not like those girls on TV.”

“You just haven’t found the right boy yet.”

“Why would you dress like that? What are people going to think?”

“You’re lucky you have me to keep you on track.”

“Girls like you don’t get to mess up after having lost everything.”

Rumi heard her voice like a ghost in the back of her skull. Every glance she held too long. Every time she’d wondered about softness and skin and connection. She’d taught herself to press those thoughts down like weeds.

But here they were again. Loud. Real. In the form of Zoey’s glitter lip gloss and Mira’s steady hands. And it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like rebellion. It felt safe. It felt good.

So why did it make her stomach twist with shame?

Because maybe it was easier to hate herself than admit she wanted something her family would never understand.

You’re not like those girls.

No. Rumi wasn’t like them.

She was quieter. She was careful. She was always trying to be good.

And good girls didn’t get tangled up in feelings for the girlfriends of other girls. They didn’t fantasize about soft touches and kind voices and how it might feel to be seen—not fixed, not corrected—just seen.

She slowed at the corner, blinking too hard against the sting in her eyes.

The worst part wasn’t the confusion.

It was how much she wanted it anyway.

And how much she didn’t believe she deserved it.

5 years ago 

The house always smelled like lemon and control.

Rumi sat at the vanity, back straight like a ruler had been tied to her spine, her knees pressed together, her school uniform starched and still. Her hair had just been braided—again—and she could still feel the tension at the front of her head from the tightness. 

Celine stood behind her, arms folded, a freshly painted nail tapping slowly against the vanity’s glass top.

“Slouching ruins your posture. And your figure.”

Rumi blinked at the mirror. She hadn’t moved.

“Yes, Celine,” she said softly.

Celine picked up a tube of lip gloss and handed it to her. “You need colour. You look washed out.”

Rumi obediently swiped it across her lips. It smelled like synthetic fruit.

Celine’s voice dropped lower, sharpening. “We’ve discussed the way you look at people. Haven’t we?”

Rumi stiffened.

“I saw how you were looking at that girl at practice. From the choir.” She paused, letting the words settle. “It was… unnatural.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Rumi.” Celine’s voice sliced clean through her denial. “Do you want people thinking you’re one of **those girls?”

The shame came quickly. Immediate. Familiar.

“No,” she whispered.

Celine softened, just a little. She brushed a hand over Rumi’s freshly braided hair, like she was smoothing something broken.

“I’m only hard on you because I care,” she said. “The world is cruel. But you’re lucky. You have me. I’ll make sure you never end up like your mother.”

The air went still.

Rumi’s jaw locked tight. Her throat closed around a hundred things she wanted to say, but wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

She simply nodded.

Because what was the point of fighting a woman who didn’t yell, didn’t scream, didn’t strike—but still made you feel like you were constantly failing her?

Celine gave her a final once-over in the mirror.

“Much better,” she said. “Now go downstairs and smile when the guests arrive. You don’t want to look ungrateful.”

Rumi stood, spine still straight, smile plastic and rehearsed.

“Yes, Celine.”

Chapter Text

The door creaked open just past six, letting in the scent of charcoal pencil smudges and someone else’s perfume from the art lab. Zoey kicked it shut with her foot, arms full of tote bags and her oversized crop top slipping off one shoulder.

“I’m home!” she called, voice light, but there was a hesitation in it. Something forced.

No answer.

She stepped into the apartment, immediately clocking Mira on the couch. Mira wasn’t watching tv, wasn’t on her phone, wasn’t even pretending to nap like she sometimes did after a long day. She was just… sitting. One leg pulled under her, elbows resting on her thighs, hands tangled loosely in front of her, eyes fixed on the floor.

Zoey’s smile dropped slightly. “Hey, baby.”

Mira blinked and looked up, her posture straightening just slightly. “Hey.”

There was a long beat.

Zoey dropped her bags by the door and moved closer, tilting her head as she scanned Mira’s expression. “You look like you’ve been thinking really hard.”

Mira hummed softly. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

Zoey bit the inside of her cheek. “We should talk, huh.”

It wasn’t really a question.

Mira nodded. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Neither of them reached for the other. That part felt strange.

Zoey looked toward the hallway. “Where’s Rumi?”

“In her room,” Mira said. “She got in a few hours ago before you. Went straight there.”

Zoey nodded, processing that. She didn’t say anything more yet—but her fingers played with her rings like she was winding herself up to something.

Zoey moved slowly toward the couch and sat down beside Mira, not too close, but close enough that their knees brushed. The contact felt fragile somehow.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all day,” Zoey said quietly, eyes still on her rings. “But, like, every time I tried to figure out how to start, my brain just did a backflip into a trash can.”

Mira’s lips lifted faintly—more reflex than humor. “You and your metaphors.”

Zoey looked up at her then, eyes big and tired but clear. “We haven’t really… had a moment to talk. About anything. About what’s been going on.”

Mira turned her head slowly, finally facing her fully. “But what has been going on Zoey?”

Zoey bit her lips nervously and exhaled sharply. “I think I like Rumi.”

Mira didn’t react. Didn’t flinch or pull away. Just listened.

Zoey’s face crumpled a little as her next words tumbled out fast, like if she didn’t say them now, they’d choke her.

“But I love you. I love you. And I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear. I’m not… I’m not trying to replace you or ruin what we have or—or anything. I’ve just been feeling so much and I don’t know where to put it.”

Her voice cracked, and her hand trembled where it gripped the fabric of her sweatpants. “I keep looking at her, and it’s like I see pieces of the same warmth I’ve always seen in you, and I hate myself for feeling drawn to it. Because we’re fine, Mira. We’re so good, and I don’t want to mess that up.”

Tears welled suddenly and spilled down her cheeks. But Mira wiped them away.

Zoey let out a sob and covered her face. “I hate that it feels good when I’m near her. I hate that I keep hoping she’ll touch me. That she’ll laugh at something I say. And then I come home and I see you and I still feel everything I’ve always felt and it just—hurts.”

Her voice cracked again. “What does that say about me? What kind of girlfriend feels this way?”

Mira’s hand moved to Zoey’s back, rubbing slow, steady circles. “The kind with a big heart.”

Zoey choked out a watery laugh. “Or a stupid one.”

“No,” Mira said firmly. “Not stupid, just scared.”

“I’m such a horrible girlfriend”

Mira furrowed her eyebrows and looked at Zoey as if she’d just insulted her entire bloodline. “Don’t ever, talk about yourself like that again.

She cupped her cheek gently, “Zo, I’m so in love with every fraction of you, every imperfection, every insecurity. You've got me through some of the hardest times of my life Zoey. You’re the best girlfriend I could ever ask for, don’t ever doubt that. I wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

Zoey eyes welled up again as she sniffed, “Not even for an unlimited supply of Korean fried chicken?”

Mira cracked a smile, “Know your limits.”

Zoey let out a soft chuckle then there was a long pause. She curled in slightly, still crying, and Mira let her, her touch steady.

“I haven’t stopped loving you,” Zoey whispered. “Not even for a second.”

“I know,” Mira murmured. “I haven’t stopped either.”

Zoey looked up, eyes red and wet. “Then what do we do?”

Mira met her gaze and brushed a tear from Zoey’s cheek with her thumb. “We don’t panic. We figure it out together. One step at a time.”

Zoey swallowed hard. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” Mira said honestly. “I was… afraid, yeah. But not mad.”

Another pause. Then Mira added, “And I’ve felt something too. With her.”

Zoey’s eyes widened, another tear slipping down her cheek. “You—what?”

Mira nodded slowly. “I don’t know what to call it either. But it’s there. And if we’re both feeling this… maybe it’s not something to run from.”

Zoey reached for her hand. Mira took it without hesitation.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Zoey said again, quieter this time.

“You won’t,” Mira said gently. “We just might have to learn a new way to hold each other.”

Zoey closed her eyes and leaned into Mira’s shoulder, still trembling, but quieter now.

“And her?” she asked after a long silence.

“We’ll take it slow,” Mira whispered. “Let her come to us. No rushing but subtle hints. 

Zoey nodded into her shoulder, her tears dampening Mira’s sweatshirt.

They stayed like that for a while—soft, exhausted, tangled in the quiet ache of wanting more than one heart could hold, but willing to try anyway.

-

Rumi had been in her room for a while, curled sideways on the bed, earbuds in but not playing anything. The apartment had been quiet since she got back, save for a few movements in the kitchen earlier, then nothing.

She’d assumed Mira and Zoey were both out.

She was halfway through convincing herself to get up and start reading the article for her Korean lit class when she heard the soft click of the front door.

And a second later—voices.

Rumi froze.

It was Zoey. Her voice carried, as usual—muffled but distinct, even through the wall.

She sat up, slowly pulling one earbud out and the other followed. The voices were clearer now. She wasn’t actively trying to eavesdrop, not exactly—but her door was cracked slightly. 

“Then what do we do?”

Zoey.

The words dropped like pins in her chest. Rumi’s fingers curled into the hem of her hoodie.

“We don’t panic. We figure it out together. One step at a time.”

Then Mira’s voice—calm, lower, harder to hear.

Rumi’s breath caught.

She knew it was wrong to keep listening. She should’ve made a noise. Closed the door. Turned on music. Something. But her body didn’t move.

“And I’ve felt something too. With her.”

Mira’s voice again. Rumi’s stomach twisted so fast it made her dizzy.

Felt something?

With her?

Like guilt? Like regret? Like pity?

“I don’t know what to call it either. But it’s there. And if we’re both feeling this… maybe it’s not something to run from.”

Rumi’s chest clenched.

She backed away from the door like it had bitten her. Each step felt like her heartbeat was knocking in her throat. She sat back down on the bed, hands shaking, sleeves already pulled over them as tightly as possible.

Her mind filled in the blanks before she could stop it:

She was a problem.

She was a mistake neither of them wanted to say out loud yet. But haven't they? Isn’t that what that conversation was about?

She knew it. She had felt Mira looking at her sleeves. And now… they were having conversations—soft, intimate, sad conversations—about how to fix this. Because of her.

Because she was here.

Because she was too much.

She was too much.

Too complicated. Too scarred.

She should’ve known it was only a matter of time before the cracks started to show.

Her throat tightened as she stared down at her arms—clutched tight inside her sleeves like they could disappear if she just held them hard enough. Her fingers dug into the fabric. The room was too quiet. She could still hear Mira’s voice echoing in her head, “I’ve felt something too.”

She didn’t know what it meant. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was affection or worry or something else, because whatever it was—it wasn’t right. Not for someone like her.

Rumi stood suddenly, like her body was trying to outrun her own thoughts. She didn’t even realize she was moving until she was in front of the mirror. Her reflection stared back—long purple hair mussed from lying down, eyes wide and pink around the edges.

Without thinking, she grabbed the hem of her hoodie and yanked it upward. Then the tank top underneath.

The fabric came off too easily.

The cool air hit her skin, and she flinched, but didn’t stop.

She looked.

Her arms. Her ribs. Her inner thighs.

The places where silence had once carved itself into her. Where pain had become a language when words didn’t work.

The scars weren't fresh, they were faded and old. Littering her body with a harsh reminder.

And they looked hideous.

She stared and stared and stared—until her vision blurred, until her breath started catching on nothing.

She pressed her hands over the marks like she could smudge them out. Like she could erase them and become someone cleaner, easier, loveable in the right kind of way.

What were they going to do about her?

That was the question Zoey had asked.

And Mira hadn’t argued.

Something sharp and shameful cracked in her chest. Her knees gave, and she sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Not to hide herself, but just to hold something.

Just to feel less like she was falling.

She had already been enough of a burden in other people’s lives—first her mother, then Celine. She was always the delicate one, the one people whispered about but didn’t want to touch too hard. Her grief. Her moodiness. Her quiet.

Now she was making it worse here too.

Mira and Zoey were perfect together. Messy and golden and whole.

And now Rumi was in the middle. Again.

She pulled her hoodie back on slowly, tugging it all the way to her knuckles like it could somehow undo the seeing.

Maybe if she never talked about it. Maybe if she stayed quiet enough, careful enough, she could still protect whatever was left of the balance.

Because if Mira really knew? If she had seen everything?

She wouldn’t still be here.

She wouldn’t be thinking of her like… like that. Right?

Wrong.

Rumi shook her head hard. She couldn’t let herself believe in kindness that soft. Not for someone like her.

Not when all the proof of her failure was etched right into her skin.

-

Rumi eventually mustered up the strength to take a much needed shower.

The mirror fogged with steam before she could glance at it. Maybe that was a blessing.

She turned on the shower, waited for it to get warm. Not hot—it couldn’t be too hot. That used to mean something different. That used to be a punishment, a punishment she’d pretend was just preference.

Now she kept it warm enough to soothe her skin, but gentle enough to not punish it.

She stepped in, letting the water run down her back. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back.

It wasn’t magic, it didn’t fix everything. But it was something.

She stood there for a long time, breathing in the steam, her fingers pressed to the tiled wall. When she finally reached for the body wash, she moved slowly. Like her skin might flinch away from her.

But it didn’t.

She didn’t feel better when she stepped out of the shower. But she felt cleaner. Lighter, maybe. A little more human.

She pulled on a fresh hoodie—her softest one. A pale lavender with fraying sleeves and sweatpants. No makeup, just her long signature purple braid.  

When she looked at herself in the mirror, she still didn’t like what she saw.

But she looked less like someone crumbling, and more like someone trying.

And that had to count for something.

-

Back in the solitude of her room there was a knock. Light and hesitatant.

Rumi froze. Another pause, and then—

“Hey, Rum?” Zoey’s voice, quiet and unusually cautious. “Can I… come in?”

Rumi scrambled to wipe her face on her sleeve and tug the hem of her hoodie lower. She didn’t want to give them another reason to think she’s too much.

Still, she forced something out. “Yeah. It’s open.”

The door creaked a little as Zoey pushed it open, peeking in like she was worried she might break something.

When her eyes landed on Rumi, they softened instantly. “Hey…” she said again, stepping inside. Her usual bounce was gone, replaced by a gentle weight in her shoulders. “I, um. Mira and I were thinking of going out. For ice cream. You know, because today sucked and we’re all kinda… emotionally scrambled eggs.”

Rumi blinked at her. Zoey was smiling—a bright encouraging smile. Like she was hoping Rumi would say yes…but that’s ridiculous. Why would they want her around them?

Rumi looked down at her hands, still curled around the blanket in her lap. “You guys don’t have to invite me.”

Zoey tilted her head. “But we want to.”

Rumi hesitated. 

“I know it’s last minute,” Zoey added, inching a little closer, “and it’s totally okay if you say no. But I just… thought you might want a reason to leave your room. Or at least be with people who get it. Not the everything part. But like, the ‘feeling too much and having a weird day’ part.”

That made Rumi let out a small, unexpected laugh. Barely a puff of air.

Zoey smiled a little wider. “There she is.”

Rumi nodded absently, then, without really thinking, asked, “Are you guys okay?”

The question landed awkwardly.

Zoey blinked. “Me and Mira?”

Rumi tried to keep her voice neutral. “Yeah. You both seemed kinda off earlier.”

Zoey’s posture changed—just slightly. Her smile faltered at the edges, and her eyes sharpened for a half-second, like a quiet alarm had gone off in the back of her head. “Did we?”

Rumi gave a soft shrug, carefully avoiding her eyes. “I mean… not really. Just felt quiet. Tense, maybe.”

Zoey was still for a beat too long, like she was re-evaluating the moment.

Then she nodded slowly, forcing a more natural tone. “Yeah, I guess we were just tired. First week blues and all that.”

Rumi smiled, small but steady. “Makes sense.”

Zoey seemed to search her face for something—for a trace of suspicion or knowledge—but Rumi didn’t let anything show. No flinch. No question. Just a girl in her room being offered ice cream.And that seemed to settle whatever was flickering in Zoey’s mind.

She softened again. “Anyway, I wanted to make sure you knew we wanted you there. I know today’s probably been a lot. You crazy morning classes people”

“Thanks,” Rumi murmured. “I’ll come. Just give me five minutes to change.”

Zoey beamed, visibly relieved. “Okay. I’ll go tell Mira.”

As she backed out of the room, Rumi exhaled slowly. Her hands trembled, hidden inside her sleeves.

Zoey hadn’t caught on.

But the part that twisted in Rumi’s stomach wasn’t relief—it was the fact that she still hadn’t asked what exactly she had overheard. And maybe she wasn’t ready to. Because what the fuck would she even say?

She let out a loud sigh before rummaging through her closet for her favourite pair of jeans. Whatever it is that is going to happen will happen, she couldn’t stop it. So maybe she should just allow herself to enjoy tonight with her friends who she cared for deeply, who always made sure she was ok, who always looked so good in sweatp-

God I hate when shitface Jinu is right.

Chapter Text

The engine hummed low beneath them, barely audible under the soft indie playlist humming through Mira’s car speakers. The headlights cut through the dark road ahead, casting fleeting pools of light over the empty sidewalks as they drove.

Rumi sat in the backseat, half watching the city pass by through the window, half wondering when Zoey had decided to abandon her coveted passenger princess spot.

Normally, it was Zoey in the front seat—feet up on the dash, DJ privileges in hand, pointing out weird cloud shapes or asking Mira philosophical questions about whether birds have best friends.

But tonight, Zoey had quietly slipped into the back beside Rumi. No complaints. Just a small smile as she buckled in and leaned her head comfortably against Rumi’s shoulder before the car even started.

It had left Rumi blinking down at her lap, flustered in a way she hadn’t fully recovered from since.

Mira drove in comfortable silence, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. From the mirror, Rumi caught glimpses of her face now and then—calm, focused, soft in a way she didn’t always show in daylight.

“Rumi, let's see what you got.” Mira smiled and looked at her through the mirror. “Connect your playlist”

 Zoey leaned closer and whispered dramatically, “I’ve been demoted.”

Rumi smiled sheepishly and connected her phone to the car’s speaker.  

“Eternity” by Alex Warren started spilling from the speakers. 

Zoey let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god. A love song? Are we confessing things tonight?”

Rumi’s eyes widened. “What? No! I just… I like the melody.”

Mira glanced back through the mirror with a raised brow. “You like the melody, huh?”

Rumi sunk a little lower in her seat. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Zoey nudged her with a teasing grin. “You’ve got the whole main character vibe going right now, Rum. Sitting in the backseat, emotional track on, Mira glancing at you through the mirror like she’s in a coming-of-age movie.”

“Shut up,” Rumi mumbled, trying not to smile, cheeks warm.

Mira smirked but said nothing, tapping her fingers against the wheel in time with the music.

The car ride settled into a quiet kind of comfort after that. The song bled into another—some acoustic cover Zoey vaguely recognized—and the city lights grew softer, blurrier, as they left the main roads and pulled into a quiet parking lot with a quaint ice cream shop nestled between a flower boutique and a closed bookstore.

The shop’s front was glowing with warm fairy lights and a flickering neon sign that read:

“Life’s short. Eat the double scoop.”

Mira parked and unbuckled, but didn’t get out immediately. She drummed her fingers against the wheel for a moment, then reached for her door.

Rumi made a move to follow—but paused as Mira rounded the car.

She walked right past the driver’s side rear door and stopped on Rumi’s side, casually pulling the handle and swinging it open.

Rumi blinked up at her.

Mira held out a hand. “Milady.”

Zoey cackled. “You’re opening doors now? What is this, a date?”

Mira didn’t look away from Rumi as she answered, “Don’t be jealous.”

Rumi hesitated, then slid her hand into Mira’s. It was warm and steady and it screamed “I’ve got you,” even if it only lasted a few seconds.

Zoey bumped into Rumi’s other side as they walked. “I’m only letting this slide because I want ice cream and you both look cute. But I am filing an official complaint.”

Mira looked back at them both and shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Noted.”

They stepped into the shop together, the scent of fresh waffle cones and caramel greeting them like a hug. It was quiet inside, just a couple at the far table and a sleepy-looking teenager behind the counter who perked up when they entered.

“What can I get for you guys?” she asked, already pulling on gloves.

“I’ll take a double scoop,” Zoey declared immediately. “Brownie batter and reese’s dream please”

Rumi laughed under her breath and stepped forward. eyes scanning the rows of creamy pastel colours behind the glass. She’d already decided on cookies and cream, but she was lingering—nervous for no real reason.

Zoey leaned in close beside her, eyes wide and serious. “Actually, you should try their secret flavor.”

Rumi blinked. “Secret flavour?”

Zoey nodded solemnly. “Yeah. It’s off-menu, but if you ask for it, they’ll make it for you special. Trust me.”

Mira, who had just finished ordering and paying, turned her head a little, vaguely suspicious.

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “What’s it called?”

“Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl,” Zoey said smoothly, without missing a beat.

Rumi just stared at her.

“…You’re lying.”

Zoey gasped, scandalized. “Would I lie to you?” She clutched her heart. “Rum. Come on. It’s a real thing. Mira, back me up.”

Mira didn’t even blink. “Don’t drag me into your crimes.”

Zoey whispered quickly, “Okay but imagine how funny it’ll be.”

Rumi gave her the most deadpan look she could manage. “You want me to say ‘Hi, can I get an Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl’ to a complete stranger?”

“Exactly,” Zoey beamed. “Bonus points if you say it confidently.”

Mira groaned from the booth. “Please don’t get us banned.”

The girl behind the counter looked up expectantly. “Ready when you are!”

Rumi turned back toward her, heart pounding with secondhand embarrassment.

But Zoey was watching with the biggest grin, and—god help her—Rumi kind of wanted to see how far she’d go with this.

She cleared her throat.

“Hi, um… can I get—” she hesitated, then shot Zoey one last glare “—an Itty Titty Wi—Cookie Swirl?” The words fell apart halfway through.

The teenager blinked. “…A what now?”

Rumi looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor. “I—just—cookies and cream. In a cone.”

From the booth, Mira howled with laughter, her head falling into her arms. Zoey collapsed against the counter, wheezing.

Rumi turned redder than the strawberry gelato. “You guys are the worst.”

“No,” Zoey grinned, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “you’re the best. That was amazing. You even said it with, like, a little confidence!”

“I hate you,” Rumi muttered, covering her face.

Mira got up and walked over with her cup in hand, still chuckling under her breath. “You’re too easy, Rumi. Never trust Zoey at an ice cream shop.”

Zoey held up her cone like a toast. “To the Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl—may it live forever in legend.”

Rumi groaned, but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips.

She hated them.

She loved them.

And she was definitely never letting Zoey order for her again.

-

After the public embarrassment Rumi insisted on being seated in a different booth, out of sight from the cashier. The three of them found a booth near the window and Mira slid in first, her usual quiet grace intact, and Zoey tugged Rumi down beside her, their thighs pressed together from the limited space. Rumi tried not to think about that part too hard.

Outside, the sky was dark, city lights blinking like soft constellations. Zoey was already taking obnoxiously large bites of her brownie batter, making exaggerated noises of satisfaction. “Oh my god, this is illegal. Arrest me. Mira, try this.”

She held out her cone, and without hesitation, Mira leaned in and took a mouthful, humming thoughtfully as she chewed.

“Mmm. Solid,” Mira said. “But mine’s better.”

“Oh, okay,” Zoey scoffed. “Bold words.”

She scooped a bit of Mira’s strawberry basil swirl and fed it to herself, then exaggeratedly moaned again. “Ugh. Okay, fine. Yours slaps.”

Rumi watched the exchange, quietly licking the top of her cookies and cream like a shy raccoon. She hadn’t even realized she was smiling until Mira turned to her.

“Wanna try?” Mira asked, gently nudging her cup toward Rumi.

Rumi blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. Just a bite,” Mira said, casual as ever. “Strawberry basil’s not as weird as it sounds.”

Zoey leaned back smugly. “It’s her signature flavor. She’s very serious about it.”

Rumi hesitated, then reached out slowly for Mira’s spoon.

“Here,” Mira offered, holding the spoon up instead. “Open.”

Rumi froze.

Zoey looked between them and stifled a grin behind her spoon.

Rumi’s cheeks flushed a dangerous shade. “I—I can feed myself.”

Mira shrugged, amused, but let her take it.

Rumi dipped the spoon into Mira’s cup and brought it to her lips. She didn’t know what she expected—maybe just fancy strawberry—but the flavor was soft and sharp at the same time, just a little herby. Refreshing. Kind of like… Mira.

She handed the spoon back and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, pretending not to see the way Mira was watching her, just a little too closely.

Then, seconds later, Mira dipped her tongue right into Rumi’s ice cream.

Rumi blinked. “Wait—”

“Sharing goes both ways Rumi,” Mira said smoothly, taking a bite of Rumi’s cookies and cream like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zoey, still tongue-deep in her own, waggled her brows. “Wow. Ice cream lady and the rizz master of music, making it intimate.”

Rumi tried to play it off. She took another bite from her own cone—same spot Mira had just eaten from—and froze.

She had just… indirectly…

Her brain blanked out completely. The cold of the ice cream didn’t even register. All she could think about was Mira’s tongue having been right there. Right where hers was now.

She stared down at her cone like it had personally offended her.

Zoey was telling some story about a painting she ruined by sneezing on it mid-critique, but Rumi couldn’t hear a single word.

She’d just shared saliva with Mira.

Technically. In a roundabout, not-at-all-real-but-kind-of-real way.

She brought her hand down and looked up—only to find Mira watching her with an unreadable expression.

Rumi quickly looked away, cheeks pink, ears burning.

Zoey nudged her knee under the table. “You good?”

“Fine,” Rumi squeaked, bringing her ice cream to her lips too fast. “Perfect.”

Mira smirked into her next bite of ice cream.

Rumi didn’t know what this night was doing to her. But she wasn’t ready for it to end.

-

The ice cream shop emptied slowly as the night wore on, a soft lull settling in the air around them. Zoey was finishing off the last of her reese’s scoop—somehow still energetic despite the sugar crash looming—when Mira glanced outside and nodded toward the park across the street.

“Wanna walk for a bit?” she asked. “It’s still nice out.”

Rumi looked up from where she’d been fiddling with the damp napkin that hosted her ice cream cone. “Sure.”

Zoey stretched, tossing her napkin in the trash and bumping her shoulder into Mira’s as she passed. “Only if there’s a swing involved.”

They crossed the street together under the soft orange glow of streetlamps, wind curling around their ankles as they stepped into the park. The gravel path wound between trees and flowerbeds, the kind that looked like someone had actually put love into maintaining them. There were distant voices—people walking dogs, a couple laughing on a bench—but for the most part, it felt like the world had quieted just for them.

Rumi walked between them, hands tucked in her hoodie pocket, cheeks still flushed from earlier.

Mira kept glancing over.

She was still thinking about the way Rumi had looked after tasting her ice cream. Like she’d short-circuited. Like she had felt something.

And maybe that was selfish to dwell on—but Mira couldn’t stop the flicker of pride in her chest.

Rumi wasn’t just quiet. She was observant and a little closed off. But tonight, under the city sky, she had seemed… happier. Lighter.

Until she stopped dead in her tracks.

Mira and Zoey nearly walked right into her.

“Rumi?” Zoey asked, confused. “What’s—?”

Then she followed Rumi’s line of sight.

A tall woman stood by the edge of the park, talking sharply into her phone. Her heels clicked against the concrete like punctuation marks. Her blazer was pristine. Her expression was not.

“Oh,” Zoey whispered. “Shit isn’t that the events director?”

Rumi took a step back. Mira stepped forward.

“Well,” she said with clipped surprise. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Her voice was honey over steel. Cold, familiar, condescending.

“Celine,” Rumi murmured, shoulders curling inward.

Zoey’s eyes widened, looking between the two. Mira went still.

Celine looked her niece up and down. “I see you’ve let your hair go again, that braid should be tighter. And you’re wearing… that.” Her gaze swept Rumi’s hoodie and jeans with visible distaste. “Honestly, Rumi. You’re in university now. Don’t you think it’s time you started presenting yourself like someone with ambition?”

Rumi didn’t speak. Just nodded stiffly, eyes fixed on the ground.

Celine’s lips pursed. “And who are your friends?”

“Mira,” Mira said flatly, stepping closer to Rumi. “And Zoey.”

Celine gave a tight smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course.”

She turned her attention back to Rumi.“I would’ve thought you’d take the opportunity to reinvent yourself. Grow up. At least try to be taken seriously in a new place. But here you are—still hiding. Still wasting your potential.”

Rumi didn’t meet her eyes. Just stared at a crack in the sidewalk.

“I see that you’re still in literature. I thought I told you to double major in science? Useless as ever. I warned you it was a dead-end major. But of course, you never listened to anyone but your feelings. Just like your mother.” She chuckled. “God rest her soul.”

Rumi flinched like she’d been slapped.

Zoey’s entire posture changed—shoulders going stiff, a slow horror blooming in her expression.

“But then again, your mother always-”

“That’s enough,” Mira cut in sharply.

Zoey flinched.

Rumi’s head snapped up.

Celine blinked, slowly, as if someone had dared interrupt a royal decree. “Excuse me?”

“I said that’s enough,” Mira repeated, eyes hard. “You don’t get to show up out of nowhere and talk to her like that. Not when you haven’t even asked how she is.”

“Mira—” Rumi’s voice came, small behind her.

But Mira didn’t look away from Celine.

“You don’t get to show up and speak to her like that just because you’re family. Family doesn’t belittle each other. Family protects them.”

Celine’s mouth twisted. “You think you understand her after what—one month of playing house?”

“I don’t have to understand everything to know she deserves better than you,” Mira replied, steel in her tone. “And she’s not alone anymore. Not with me. Not with Zoey. So you can take your superiority complex and go ruin someone else’s night.”

There was silence. Heavy. Tense.

Celine stared at Mira like she wanted to say something else—needed to—but she didn’t.

She just let out a low breath and turned sharply on her heel, muttering, “Fine. Keep coddling her. See where that gets you.”

“Rumi, I expect you to call from time to time. I’d like to know what progresses from—this. Especially when they find out”

And then she was gone. Just the sound of her heels echoing across the pavement.

For a moment, the girls stood still.

Then Rumi collapsed onto a nearby bench without saying anything. Her hands were still shaking.

Zoey knelt in front of her and reached out gently. “Rumi… hey. Breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” Rumi said quickly, quietly, her eyes glassy. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. I didn’t even know she was in town.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Mira said firmly, sitting beside her. “She came at you. That’s on her.”

Zoey nodded. “She’s wrong, Rumi. About all of it.”

Rumi looked between them, the warmth of their presence pressing against the cold left behind by her aunt’s words.

Something softened in her chest again.

“I know,” she whispered. “But it still hurts. She always knows how to make me feel like I’m back in her house. Like I’m fourteen again”

Mira’s jaw clenched. “You’re not that girl anymore.”

“I still feel like her sometimes.”

“Then we’ll remind you until you believe it.”

Rumi looked up at them, watery eyes flicking between Mira’s steady gaze and Zoey’s warm concern.

She didn’t smile but something settled in her posture again—something that had flinched away during the encounter.

Mira gently reached over and squeezed her hand. “We’ve got you.”

Zoey nodded, brushing her thumb across Rumi’s knuckles. “Always.”

-

The apartment was dim when they returned, lit only by the soft yellow hue from the kitchen under-cabinet lights and the glow of the streetlamp leaking through the living room curtains.

Rumi stepped in first, her hands still buried deep in the pockets of her hoodie. She hadn’t said much the whole ride home, only murmured a small “thanks” when Mira handed her a water bottle and Zoey offered to play music to fill the silence.

Mira locked the door behind them, her eyes flicking straight to Rumi’s slouched shoulders. She didn’t look broken—but she looked tired in a way that hurt to watch.

“Rumi,” Mira said gently. “Can you come sit with me?”

Zoey busied herself in the kitchen, not saying anything yet—but staying close.

Rumi hesitated, hovering by the hallway like she might retreat to her room again. But something in Mira’s voice—steady, soft, low—made her legs move on their own.

She sat on the couch beside Mira, unsure where to place her hands. Her sleeves were too long again, covering her palms.

Mira turned toward her. “What she said back there… That wasn’t your fault.”

Rumi’s mouth twitched like she wanted to say something but didn’t trust her voice.

“You didn’t deserve that,” Mira continued, reaching for Rumi’s hand. She didn’t force it, just rested her fingers nearby—an open invitation.

It took a second, but Rumi slid her hand over Mira’s, palms cold and unsure.

“I shouldn’t have frozen like that,” Rumi whispered. “I’m always freezing. Every time she speaks to me, I just—I turn into a kid again. And she knows it. And she uses it.”

“She’s toxic,” Mira said. “And if I could go back in time and shove her into the nearest storm drain, I would.”

That made Rumi huff a broken laugh.

“I mean it,” Mira said, letting herself smile a little now that Rumi was smiling too, even if it was faint.

Zoey wandered over with three mugs of warm tea and placed them on the table, then plopped herself dramatically on the other side of Rumi.

“I vote next time we bring a water balloon launcher and hit her with dairy-free yogurt,” Zoey said.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Is that… revenge?”

“Gentle revenge. Very on brand for us.”

Rumi laughed again, soft but real this time.

Zoey leaned her head against Rumi’s shoulder, nuzzling into the hoodie. “I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Rums. No one gets to define you. Not her, not anyone.”

“I know,” Rumi said, barely audible. “I’m trying to remember that.”

“You don’t have to try alone,” Mira said. “We’ve got you.”

There was a long silence. Rumi let it settle around her, warm and safe and unlike anything she’d grown up knowing. Mira’s hand still held hers. Zoey’s cheek rested against her shoulder. And for once, she didn’t feel like a third wheel or a burden.

She felt… wanted.

Not just tolerated, but actually wanted.

Zoey lifted her head suddenly, sniffled, and clapped her hands once. “Okay. We’ve had feelings. We’ve eaten emotionally significant desserts. Time for the final stage of healing.”

Mira tilted her head. “Which is?”

Zoey smirked. “Uno.”

Rumi blinked. “Uno?”

“Yup. But, like, bloodsport Uno. We’re talking +4 warfare. Emotional recovery through petty card-based violence.”

Mira chuckled, already reaching for the drawer where they kept the games. “You just want an excuse to make Rumi suffer.”

“I want an excuse to see Rumi win,” Zoey corrected dramatically, draping herself across the back of the couch. “Nothing heals the soul like slapping down a reverse card and making someone draw 4”

 Rumi looked between them, still tucked into her hoodie—but her smile didn’t vanish this time.

“Okay,” she said, sitting up a little straighter. “Let’s play.”

Mira handed out the cards as Zoey lit a lavender-scented candle on the table, their laughter already overlapping before the first round even started.

And for the first time in days, the apartment didn’t feel heavy. It felt like home.

Thirty seconds into the first round of Uno, it became clear: Zoey was not playing to heal. She was playing to destroy.

“Draw four, baby,” she grinned, slapping down the card with the dramatic flair of a broadway villain.

Mira blinked at her hand, deadpan. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” Zoey purred, blowing her a kiss. “Now take your punishment.”

Rumi snorted into her tea, trying to hide it behind her sleeve. She had four cards left—technically in a good spot—if Zoey didn’t throw the whole game into chaos.

Mira sighed and picked up the four cards slowly, deliberately. “You’re going to regret that.”

“Oh no,” Zoey mock-gasped. “Is that a threat? Is Mira ‘Passive-Aggressive Cutie Pie’ Kim threatening me?”

“It’s a promise.”

Rumi grinned without meaning to. “You guys are dangerous.”

Zoey leaned sideways toward her, eyes sparkling. “We’re adorable. You, on the other hand…”

“What?”

“You’re suspiciously good at this,” Zoey said, narrowing her eyes. “How many cards do you have again?”

“Four,” Rumi replied innocently, flashing them quickly like a magician.

“Oh hell no,” Zoey said. “That’s it. I’m watching you. Don’t get comfortable.”

“Noted.”

The next few minutes devolved into chaos—Mira stacking +2s like a menace, Zoey pretending to cry every time someone skipped her, and Rumi quietly dominating the board while staying under the radar. It wasn’t until Mira slapped down a reverse and then a +4 that Zoey wailed and flopped dramatically across Rumi’s lap.

“This is abuse,” she groaned, staring at the ceiling. “Actual, documented girlfriend-on-girlfriend betrayal.”

Rumi froze for a half-second under her weight, unsure where to put her hands. But then Mira arched a brow and said, “That’s what you get for trying to gaslight Rumi into ordering the Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl.”

Zoey snorted. “I almost had her.”

“Almost doesn’t count in Uno or ice cream, babe.”

“Rude,” Zoey muttered, still sprawled over Rumi, who had gone mostly stiff with silent, nervous laughter.

“You okay under there?” Mira asked dryly.

“Totally fine,” Rumi replied, trying not to combust as Zoey peeked up at her and smiled.

“You’re really warm,” Zoey mumbled. “It’s cozy here.”

Mira smirked slightly. “You’ve got three seconds to move or you’re disqualified.”

Zoey shrieked and rolled off the couch, taking half the blanket with her. “CHEATING. THIS IS A HATE CRIME.”

Rumi’s cheeks were flushed pink, but her eyes were shining now, brighter than they had all day. She reached for the cards and calmly laid her final two cards on the table.

“Uno,” she said, then added with a smirk, “and Uno out.”

Zoey sat up straight. “No. Wait—what?”

Rumi showed her empty hand.

Mira blinked, then laughed. “Damn. She just pulled a sneak win.”

“I was busy getting reverse cuddled!” Zoey cried, pointing an accusatory finger.

“You lost fair and square,” Mira said.

“I demand a rematch,” Zoey grumbled, shuffling the cards dramatically. “No mercy this time.”

As the next round began, the tension of the day slipped further away. No more aunts, no more spirals—just cards and teasing and warmth passed between them like a language they all understood.

And even though no one said it out loud, it was clear:

This was the start of something they’ve all been wanting, even if someone is still in denial.

Chapter Text

Monday mornings were never quiet in their apartment.

A thud echoed from somewhere down the hall, followed by a shriek of joy that startled at least three pigeons off the fire escape.

“GUESS WHAT!” Zoey’s voice tore through the apartment like a weather siren. Mira groaned from her spot on the living room couch, arm flung over her face, half-asleep with a psychology textbook resting on her stomach. She didn’t move.

In her room, Rumi blinked up from her pillow, face smushed against the hoodie she hadn’t bothered to take off the night before. Her heart was racing now, footsteps thundered toward her door.

Rumi barely had time to sit up before Zoey burst in like a human glitter bomb, hair a little wild, socks mismatched, phone clutched triumphantly in hand.

“Classes are cancelled!” she declared. “A whole week! No school! This is not a drill!”

Rumi blinked. “What?”

“Protest. Some campus-wide faculty strike or something about budget mismanagement. I don’t know. I stopped reading after ‘no classes,’” Zoey beamed, already doing a victory spin in the middle of the room.

From the couch, Mira’s voice came out low and muffled. “…It’s Monday, Zoey.”

“I know. It’s the best Monday.” She appeared in the doorway holding up her phone like a newspaper headline. “We’re free. Baby, we’re on vacation!”

Rumi rubbed her eyes. “Are you… okay?”

“No,” Zoey said cheerfully. “I’m deranged with joy.”

Mira sat up with a groan, hair mused on one side and a red mark on her cheek from sleeping badly. “Are you sure this isn’t a hoax? Like last time?”

Zoey gasped. “That was one time. And I thought we were getting a hurricane.”

“It was a weather test,” Mira deadpanned. “And you printed emergency supply lists.”

Rumi stifled a laugh behind her sleeve.

Zoey strutted into the room anyway, collapsing half onto Rumi’s bed and half into her lap. “THIS TIME IT’S TOTALLY LEGIT!”

The last four days had actually been… nice. Their usual chaos remained—Zoey dramatizing her daily existential crisis over art critiques, Mira keeping everyone alive with homemade meals and sharp reminders to hydrate, and Rumi slowly learning to exhale in their company.

Each morning, Mira and Rumi left the apartment together, walking to their morning classes in a growing rhythm—quiet conversations about professors and readings, shared coffees when one of them forgot breakfast. It became normal. Easy, even.

Zoey constantly reminding them of their horrible decision. “Imagine having to be up before noon” she scoffed.

But when they came back, she was always waiting—with snacks, stories, chaos.

Now, with a full week off, Rumi knew one thing for certain.

It wasn’t going to be a quiet week.

And she was proven right.

-

They didn’t even bother trying to cook.

By noon, a stack of takeout containers had overtaken the coffee table—half-finished fries, cartons of noodles, something Zoey ordered just because it came with “mystery sauce.” Mira lit a candle to combat the growing scent of garlic and soy. Rumi hadn’t laughed that much in ages.

They cycled through three movies—one rom-com, one horror (which Zoey promptly hid behind Rumi during), and a nature documentary that Zoey insisted was soothing. At some point, Rumi ended up with her feet in Zoey’s lap while Mira braided a lazy piece of her own hair, head leaned against a pillow she kept stealing back from Zoey.

It was easy, that kind of day. The kind where time passed in blankets, snacks and comfortable silence.

It wasn’t until the third bag of chips was emptied and the movie credits rolled on the screen that Zoey jolted upright.

“I’m bored.”

Mira didn’t even glance up. “Then pick the next movie.”

“No. I want chaos. I want drama,” Zoey said, eyes glinting with that particular brand of mischief that always sealed someone's doom.

Rumi raised a brow. “I thought this was your perfect Monday.”

“It isss. But, now I want to make it better.”

“Oh no,” Mira muttered.

Zoey unlocked her phone, thumbs moving fast. “We’re playing Truth or Dare.”

“I’m out,” Mira said immediately.

“No, you’re in,” Zoey replied, unbothered. “I already downloaded an app. It randomizes the questions so no one can cheat and pretend they’re not mean enough to ask good ones.”

Rumi gave her a wary look. “Isn’t that usually a sleepover thing?”

Zoey shrugged. “It’s a bonding thing. Besides, you’ve lived with us for over a month now. It’s officially hazing time.”

“I thought we were done with hazing after you made me ask for the ‘Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl,’” Rumi muttered.

Zoey grinned. “That was initiation.”

Mira sighed, already pulling a blanket over her lap like she was preparing for war. “Fine. But if I get dared to do something ridiculous you can say goodbye to kisses for a week.” 

Zoey clutched her chest and threw herself back on the couch dramatically gasping. “Just say you hate me and want me to kill myself.

“Zoeyyyy.” Mira sighed.

 “You’re rejecting me.”

“I’m rejecting this app,” Mira said flatly then looked at Zoey. 

That was her mistake. Because the puppy dog eyes combined with the pout Zoey was serving right now, made her weak all over. “Ugh, fine.” Mira playfully rolled her eyes as Zoey lunged at her and placed a kiss to her lips.

She broke the kiss and turned to Rumi, “Are you ready Rum?” 

Rumi's eyes widened a bit as her words struggled to come out. “I- well no? Wait, maybe I think?”

“Too bad,” Zoey beamed. “Because I’m starting the game… now.”

She tapped the glowing “Start” button on the screen. It lit up dramatically before landing on: Zoey – Truth.

“Perfect,” she said. “Ask me anything. My soul is an open book.”

Mira raised a brow. “What’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever had?”

Zoey didn’t even pause. “Okay, so once I dreamt I was a giant spaghetti noodle being chased through a supermarket by a fork wearing my ex’s face.”

Rumi choked. “What?”

“It was symbolic,” Zoey said sagely.

“You’re so weird,” Mira muttered, but her lips twitched.

Zoey hit the screen again, spinning it.

Mira – Dare.

Zoey looked at her with a grin that was all teeth. “Oooh. Let’s get spicy.”

“I regret everything,” Mira deadpanned.

“Okay, okay,” Zoey said, tapping through the options before giggling. “Text the last person you ghosted and say ‘I saw you in my dream. You were still bitter.’”

Rumi covered her mouth.

Mira didn’t flinch. “Make it ‘You were still bitter. But somehow hotter.’”

Zoey let out an offended sound. “You’re ruining the dramatic flair.”

“I’m upgrading it.”

Rumi blinked. “You guys are unhinged.”

“You love us,” they both said at the same time.

And she did. She really, really did.

Zoey hit the spin again.

Rumi – Truth.

She stiffened.

Zoey grinned. “Ooh. Okay. Be honest. What’s the last thing someone did that made your stomach flip?”

Rumi hesitated. Mira looked at her, not pressing—just waiting. Zoey leaned forward slightly, eyes wide with curiosity but no pressure.

Rumi’s throat was dry.

“…I don’t know,” she said slowly, eyes darting away. “Probably when someone offered to share their ice cream and then ate mine without asking.”

Mira blinked.

Zoey’s face cracked into a grin. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

Mira didn’t say anything, but her hand casually brushed Rumi’s socked foot beneath the blanket. Just once. Barely there.

Rumi nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Ok next round!,” she said quickly

-

Outside, the rain had started—soft at first, then steady, drumming lightly against the windows like a lullaby. The grey afternoon dimmed the apartment, and no one had bothered to turn on any harsh lights. A warm glow from the corner lamp and the flickering candle on the coffee table painted the space in gold and amber.

Rumi curled her toes beneath the blanket, knees tucked to her chest. Mira had taken the middle cushion of the couch, her socked feet resting on the table, while Zoey lounged across the floor in front of them, chin propped on her arms.

The apartment was cold. Not freezing, but just enough to make the blanket feel necessary. And Mira’s body warmth felt like a luxury Rumi started believing she deserved—and wasn’t about to let go of.

“Wait, there's a feature I want to try.” Zoey said excitedly as she turned on the AI generated responses. “Let’s see if artificial intelligence really is out for mankind.”

Zoey tapped the next turn on the app.

Zoey – Dare.

She grinned. “Yes. Bring it.”

The app dinged and displayed:

“Whisper something in someone’s ear that would make them blush.”

“Oh hell yeah,” Zoey said, practically vibrating.

Mira arched a brow. “I hate how excited you look.”

Rumi pulled the blanket higher. “Wait, is this even a safe game?”

Zoey turned her whole body around to face the couch, chin resting on Rumi’s knee now. “Safe as long as you trust me.”

“I don’t,” Mira muttered.

“Rude,” Zoey said sweetly, then turned to Rumi. “I’m picking you.”

Rumi blinked, already flushing. “What- why me?”

“Because you’re cute when you blush. And Mira can’t hear this one.” Zoey leaned closer, breath warm near Rumi’s ear.

Rumi tensed. Mira’s gaze flicked toward them, calm but observant.

Zoey whispered low and slow, voice almost a purr:

“If you moaned my name like you did over that ice cream, I think I’d forget how to stand.”

Rumi froze.

Zoey pulled away, grinning like she’d just set something on fire. Rumi turned so red it looked like she might combust.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, yanking the blanket over her face. “You’re actually insane.”

“What?” Zoey said innocently. “The app told me to do it.”

Mira tilted her head. “You’re lucky that was her and not me. You whisper in my ear like that and we’d be skipping this game and I’d take you right here.”

Zoey smirked, eyes glinting. “Noted.”

Rumi made a sound like a dying animal under the blanket.

“Your turn, Rum,” Zoey sang as she let Rumi click the spin button on the app. “Truth!”  

Mira took the phone and tapped the screen.

“If someone here kissed you right now, who would you want it to be?”

The blanket didn’t move.

“Oh,” Zoey whispered. “This app’s out for you .”

Rumi peeked out just enough to glare. “Can I lie?”

“No,” Mira and Zoey said at the same time.

The blanket rustled more. Rumi’s face was pink and sheepish and so, so exposed.

“…I don’t know,” she whispered.

Zoey tilted her head. “That’s not a no.”

Rumi swallowed hard. “It’s a panic.”

Mira leaned back, her fingers brushing the rim of her mug. “We won’t push you. But you should know… either answer would be safe here.”

Zoey nodded, gentle now. “Always.”

Rumi looked between them—Zoey with her soft grin and twinkling eyes, Mira calm and steady and warm like the weight of her palm against hers that night on the couch. And in that moment, her chest ached with something she couldn’t name.

“I- I just don’t think that’d be okay because you guys are a couple. I don’t want to make things awkward or ruin anything.”

“You’re not,” Zoey said, sliding up beside her and tugging the blanket over both their laps.

Mira’s voice came low, “You’re the reason it’s working.”

Outside, thunder rumbled faintly.

Inside, Rumi wasn’t sure if it was the rain or her own heartbeat that filled her ears.

Zoey tapped the next turn, but her hand stayed close—barely brushing against Rumi’s thigh beneath the blanket.

The game would go on. The dares might get bolder. But for now, the electricity in the air wasn’t from the storm.

It was them.

The app pinged again.

Zoey – Dare.

Zoey grinned before even reading it. “If this is another whisper thing, I’m making it uncomfortably poetic.”

Mira read aloud, smirking slightly:

“Remove one article of clothing.”

Zoey gasped dramatically. “Scandalous.”

Rumi laughed quietly, her hand still clutching the edge of the blanket. “You don’t have to do it.”

Zoey tossed her hands up. “Oh please, I’ve walked around in weirder things during critiques.”

Without hesitation, she stood and peeled off her oversized sweatpants in one motion, revealing tight black bike shorts that hugged her hips and thighs like a second skin. She posed like a contestant on a game show. “Ladies ladies, calm down there’s enough of Zoey to go around.”

Rumi choked on her tea.

Mira didn’t blink but patted the seat next to her. “Sit down.”

Zoey flopped back down between them, blanket back over her lap. “Now I’m freezing and sexy. The duality.”

“Insanely sexy” Mira looked at Zoey as if she was in a trance.

The next turn buzzed:

Rumi – Dare.

Rumi glanced at the phone, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

Mira read it aloud before she could protest:

“Take off the first top layer of clothing.”

“Ouu so that’ll be your hoodie” Zoey teased.

But there was a beat of silence.

Rumi froze, her fingers twitching slightly where they clutched the hem of her hoodie sleeves. Her heart dropped, blood rushing in her ears so loud she barely heard the rain anymore.

It was just a dare. Just a stupid, harmless dare.

But all she could think about were the scars beneath the fabric. Pale, faded, and mostly healed—but still there. Still hers. Still visible.

She’d made it a point to wear long sleeves every day since that day…especially since moving in.

No one had seen. Not Mira. Not Zoey.

And now they were watching her, waiting.

“Oh,” Rumi said quickly, trying to keep her tone light. “Actually—uh—I should pee first.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait, you can’t stall during—”

But Rumi was already untangling herself from the blanket, nearly knocking over her mug in the process.

“I just—yeah, hold that dare,” she muttered, slipping off the couch.

She didn’t look back. She shut the bathroom door gently, but locked it like her life depended on it.

-

Back in the living room, the air shifted.

Zoey leaned forward, confused. “Was it something I said?”

Mira stared at the closed bathroom door, her brows furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. She hadn’t missed the change in Rumi’s body language—the sharp inhale, or the way she’d wrapped her arms tighter around herself the second the dare was read.

“No,” Mira said slowly. “It wasn’t you.”

Zoey looked down at her phone, then back toward the hallway. “She seemed… scared.”

Mira nodded once. “Yeah.”

A beat passed.

“You think we pushed too far?”

“Maybe,” Mira said softly. “But not in the way you think.”

Zoey frowned. “She looked like she was gonna cry.”

“She panicked,” Mira said. “Something about the hoodie—I really doubt it was just about modesty or shyness.”

Zoey blinked. “You think it’s a dysphoria thing?”

Mira shook her head. “I don’t want to assume. But whatever it is… she’s hiding something.”

The room felt colder now. Or maybe it was the quiet.

Zoey chewed her lip. “Should we check on her?”

Mira considered that but eventually shook her head. “Not yet. Give her a second.”

They sat in silence for a beat longer, the game forgotten, rain still whispering against the windows. Mira’s hand curled loosely around her mug, but her eyes never left the hallway.

“She didn’t want us to see her arms,” she said finally, quietly.

Zoey looked up. “How do you know?”

Mira hesitated. Then said, “Because I’ve seen that kind of fear before.”

Zoey didn’t press.

Instead, she scooted a little closer to Mira, dropping her voice. “We didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know,” Mira said. “But this… might be something she doesn’t know how to say out loud yet.”

And maybe that was okay.

Because Mira had the patience to wait.

And Zoey had the heart to help her laugh again.

And Rumi—Rumi didn’t have to rush.

-

The bathroom light was too bright.

Rumi sat on the closed toilet lid, her hoodie still clutched tightly around her arms, as if it might fuse to her skin if she held it hard enough.

Her breathing was shallow.

It was just a dare. A stupid game.

That’s what she kept telling herself. Just a stupid game, just friends messing around. Just Zoey being Zoey, smiling like the world couldn’t touch her. Just Mira reading it out like it was nothing. And maybe for them, it was.

But for her…

Her pulse was still hammering. Her mouth was dry. She couldn’t even look at herself in the mirror.

She’d felt it creeping up the second the words left Mira’s mouth: “Take off the first top layer of clothing.”

Like someone had grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her backwards in time. To a version of herself she’d tried so hard to bury. To the raw, open days. To the ugly thoughts. To the summer she’d covered up everything and hoped no one would ever ask.

And then she moved in here.

And they were kind. Kind in ways she hadn’t prepared for, hadn’t anticipated.

Mira with her quiet check-ins, her calming presence. Zoey with her chaos and warmth and casual touches. And Rumi had started to feel… safe.

Until now.

She dug her fingers into her sleeves. Her forearms ached—not from pain, but from the weight of memory. The shame. The idea of either of them seeing what she carried under the fabric made her feel sick.

They wouldn’t be mean. She knew that.

But that made it worse, somehow.

She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want soft voices and sorry eyes.

She just wanted to not have to explain.

A soft knock pulled her out of the spiral.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice, low and careful. “It’s me.”

Rumi froze.

“Can I come in?”

“No—uh. No, I’m okay,” Rumi said quickly, trying to keep her voice even. “I’ll be out in a second.”

There was a pause.

“You sure?”

Rumi stared at the floor. The tiles looked too clean. She felt like a mess in comparison.

“I just needed a sec,” she added, quieter.

Another pause.

“I’m not here to force you to do anything you don’t want to do,” Mira said softly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Rumi blinked fast.

Silence again. The kind that wasn’t pressing—just waiting. Mira didn’t jiggle the handle or ask her to open up.

She just stayed there.

“I panicked,” Rumi admitted, barely audible through the door.

“I know.”

Rumi swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“You didn’t.” Mira’s voice was gentle, steady. “You don’t ever have to do something that makes you uncomfortable. Especially not for a stupid game.”

Rumi pressed her sleeve to her face, nodding even though no one could see her.

“I wasn’t judging you,” Mira added. “Neither of us were. Zoey’s worried.”

Rumi’s breath caught.

Mira’s voice softened further. “But I saw your face when that dare came up. Something happened. And I don’t want to push. I just want to… be here. However you need me to be.”

Rumi felt the sting of tears but didn’t let them fall. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them tightly.

After a moment, she whispered, “Thank you.”

She didn’t open the door.

But Mira stayed anyway.

The hallway was still.

Rumi stood behind the door for another minute after Mira’s voice faded, willing her heartbeat to slow down. She splashed cold water on her face. Dried it with a paper towel. Took three long, trembling breaths. Then, carefully—like it might creak too loud—she unlocked the bathroom door and stepped back into the dim light of the apartment.

Mira was still leaning against the wall across from the door. Arms crossed loosely. Not tense. Just… waiting.

Their eyes met, and Rumi expected Mira to say something first.

She didn’t.

She just looked at her—really looked—and gave a small nod. Like okay. You came back. I see you.

Rumi nodded back.

Wordlessly, Mira turned and started walking down the hall, just slow enough that Rumi could follow without feeling like she was being led.

The living room was quieter now. The phone that had been running the truth-or-dare app was facedown on the coffee table. The last of the fries they’d ordered earlier were going cold on the tray beside it.

Zoey looked up from the couch the second she heard them. Her eyes were wide. Worry, guilt, something else flickering behind them like a candle in the wind. “Hey.”

Rumi didn’t speak. She just crossed the room slowly and sat back down on the couch—this time between them.

Zoey shifted a little, cautious. “Are you okay? I—was that too far? I didn’t mean to make it weird. I swear, I just thought it’d be fun—”

“It’s okay,” Rumi said quietly, cutting her off before the spiral could start.

Zoey blinked.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it. It just… hit weird. That’s on me.”

Zoey’s face fell, but Mira reached for Rumi’s hand at the same time Zoey did.

Rumi let them both hold it.

“You don’t have to explain,” Mira said. “Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want to.”

Zoey nodded quickly. “Yeah. We’ll just blame it on the cursed app. Honestly? It was getting weird anyway. Next dare was for Mira to lick a pillow seductively and we all know that would’ve ended in war.”

Rumi huffed a laugh, quiet and shaky.

Zoey’s eyes lit up just a little. “You wanna watch a movie instead? Something dumb? I think I downloaded that horror-comedy about possessed gummy bears.”

Mira groaned softly. “Why are you like this.”

Rumi nodded. “Yeah. Movie’s good.”

Zoey smiled and grabbed the remote with a flourish. “Movie night it is.”

As the opening credits rolled, Rumi curled into the couch again, this time with a blanket over her lap. Mira stayed on her left, Zoey on her right, their arms brushing hers now and then.

No one said anything about the game again.

But they stayed close. And Rumi didn’t pull away.

And even though the scars still pulsed quietly beneath her sleeves, even though the internal ache hadn’t vanished completely, she wasn’t alone in it.

Until.

They didn’t even make it halfway through the movie.

One second, Rumi was bundled in the corner of the couch under a blanket, head resting against the cushion. The next, she let out a shivery breath and blinked blearily like the world had tilted sideways.

Mira noticed first.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low, brow furrowing as she leaned closer.

Rumi didn’t answer.Her lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering closed, sweat clinging to her forehead.

“Rumi?” Mira touched her arm. Felt heat. Not warmth—heat.

Zoey paused the movie. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s burning up,” Mira said, already kneeling on the couch beside her. “Like—really bad.”

Rumi shifted weakly, like she heard them but couldn’t respond. Her hoodie clung to her skin, damp with sweat. Her cheeks were flushed red, but the rest of her face had gone pale. Glassy eyes half-lidded, she swayed slightly where she sat—and then slumped forward into Mira’s arms.

“Whoa, whoa—Rumi,” Mira caught her, voice tightening. “Zoey, call that doctor friend you have. And God, Zoey I hope it’s legit”

Zoey was already dialing her friend Mystery’s doctor hotline, her voice shaking as she gave the details. Mira cradled Rumi against her chest, the weight of her too warm, too still.

“He said we need to cool her down,” Zoey choked out. “Get the hoodie off. It’s too hot, she can’t regulate if she’s—God, I don’t know—”

“Okay.” Mira’s voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp with worry. “Help me.”

Zoey dropped the phone and rushed over, but as soon as she touched Rumi’s damp sleeve, her hands faltered.

“Her skin—she’s so hot. I didn’t even notice.” Her voice cracked. “We were just messing around—she was smiling, Mira—how did it get this bad?”

Mira didn’t answer. Her focus was on Rumi, on the quiet way she whimpered when the hoodie started to come off, like even unconscious, some part of her was afraid.

Then the sleeves dragged up past her forearms.

Zoey sucked in a sharp breath. Her knees nearly gave out.

“Mira.”

Mira had seen them already—thin, pale scars lined across Rumi’s inner arms, faint but undeniable. They looked and healed.

Zoey just stared.

Her voice came out barely a whisper: “Is that?”

Mira didn’t respond. She just moved slower, gentler, as if every inch of Rumi was something breakable. She reached for a dry long-sleeve shirt from the basket nearby and dressed Rumi quietly, covering the scars without a word. Not out of shame—out of instinct. Out of care.

Zoey backed away and sat heavily on the floor.

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t know. I made her take the dare. I—I made her feel cornered.”

“You didn’t know,” Mira said softly, brushing Rumi’s hair back from her clammy face. “Neither of us did. Not fully at least.”

“But she didn’t tell us,” Zoey whispered, hugging her knees. “She didn’t say anything. She’s been saying she’s okay, and we just—believed her. I should’ve noticed. I live with her, I look at her every day, and I didn’t even notice.”

“She didn’t want us to,” Mira said, voice steady but tight. “She’s scared. Whatever she’s carrying—she’s been carrying it alone for a long time.”

Zoey’s eyes filled with tears, burning hot and angry. “She shouldn’t have to. Not with us.”

Mira reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “She won’t anymore.”

Rumi whimpered again, brow furrowed in her fevered sleep.

Zoey immediately moved closer and gently pressed a cold compress to her forehead, voice trembling. “It’s okay, Rums. We’ve got you. You’re not alone anymore, okay?”

They wrapped her in a dry blanket, this time a lighter one. Kept the air around her cool but not cold. Mira checked her pulse twice. Zoey clutched her hand like she was trying to transmit warmth and apology through her grip.

Neither of them moved for hours.

And even though Zoey’s chest still ached—still felt like she’d failed her—she kept whispering little reassurances every time Rumi stirred.

Because guilt would come later.

Right now, all that mattered was keeping her safe.

-

Consciousness came to Rumi slowly.

First, it was the ache in her limbs—like she’d been run over by something heavy and left to melt into the mattress. Then the low throb behind her eyes. Her body felt like it had been dragged through steam, damp and heavy and cold all at once.

Voices.

Familiar ones.

“…temp’s gone down a little,” Mira was saying quietly. “Still not good, but it’s progress.”

“Should we—like, wake her?” Zoey’s voice was softer than Rumi had ever heard it. Worried and small.

“No,” Mira murmured. “Let her rest. She’s safe now.”

Safe.

The word hit Rumi like a slap.

Her brain caught up a second later. Hoodie. The dare. The bathroom. Then…

Her breath caught in her throat.

Rumi’s breath hitched, sharp and high in her throat. Panic flooded her chest like water, fast and suffocating. She jolted upright before her body was ready, head swimming, stomach lurching.

She barely noticed Zoey on the floor beside the bed until she heard the soft, choked gasp.

“Rumi?”

Zoey’s voice cracked around her name.

Rumi looked down—and saw her.

Zoey was staring up at her, eyes wide and glossy, her mouth trembling like she couldn’t figure out how to speak without falling apart. And behind her, Mira stood near the bedroom door, her expression unreadable—but her eyes were fixed on Rumi’s forearms.

Bare.

Rumi gasped, grabbing for the blanket with shaking hands. But her body was too weak—she missed it, knocked over a half-full glass of water on the nightstand.

“No—no no no—” she whispered, clawing at the blanket again, dragging it up to her chin like it could erase everything.

“Rumi, hey—breathe, it’s okay,” Mira said, stepping forward, slow and cautious.

Rumi’s vision blurred.

“You weren’t supposed to—you weren’t supposed to see—”

Zoey moved to her knees, panicked. “We didn’t mean to! I swear, we just—we called a doctor, you were burning up—he said to get you out of the hoodie—and you weren’t waking up and I—” Her voice broke. “I didn’t know—I didn’t know.”

“I can’t—” Rumi choked out, hyperventilating now. “You can’t see me like this—I didn’t want—I can’t—I can’t breathe—”

Mira was next to her in a second, crouching to her level, voice quiet and low. “Rumi. Rumi, look at me.”

“I can’t—” Rumi was crying now. Not graceful tears. Panicked, gasping, ugly sobs that tore straight from her chest.

“I know. I know it feels like too much right now,” Mira said. “But you’re safe. You’re safe. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I—I didn’t want you to know,” Rumi sobbed, pulling her knees to her chest, arms locked tight around them. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Zoey’s face crumpled. “Ruin what? Rumi—”

“This—you. Us. You were starting to like me and now—now you know and you’ll look at me different and—”

“Never,” Mira said instantly, her voice firmer now. “That’s never going to happen.”

But it’s disgusting,” Rumi whispered. “I did that. I did it. On purpose. You saw it—you saw—me.”

Mira knelt fully in front of her now, not touching—just there. “You’re not disgusting, Rumi. You were in pain. That pain didn’t make you broken. And nothing about what you’ve been through makes you less lovable.”

Zoey was crying now, silently. “We don’t think you’re gross. Or scary. Or wrong. We love you so much, Rumi. We’re just—hurting that you felt like you had to hide all that alone.”

“I had to,” Rumi hissed, breath rattling. “People change when they know. They pull away. Or they try to fix you. Or they look at you like you’re fragile. I couldn’t—I can’t lose this.”

Mira’s voice softened again. “You’re not going to lose us.”

Rumi flinched.

Something in her expression changed—not relief. Not comfort.

It was doubt.

Real, heavy, gut-deep doubt.

Her eyes glazed over, jaw locking tight as her body pulled slightly inward, like bracing for impact. Not because she didn’t want to believe Mira—but because some part of her had already decided she couldn’t.

Not after what happened before.

4 years ago

The locker room was still warm from the last period gym class. The air was humid, thick with the tang of sweat and cheap citrus body spray. Laughter bounced off the tiled walls and water splashed in the nearby showers.

Rumi stood in front of her locker, alone at the end of the row.

Her fingers trembled as she peeled off her damp long-sleeve shirt. She had tried to wait—tried to be the last one changing, as usual—but someone had come back for their charger, and now she wasn’t alone.

She moved fast. Or thought she had.

But the sleeve caught on her wrist.

And just like that—her arms were bare. For three seconds too long.

Too long.

“Rumi?”

She froze. Her stomach dropped.

The voice behind her was one she knew by heart.

Her best friend Maya.

Rumi turned slowly, clutching her clean shirt to her chest. “Hey,” she said, trying to keep her voice light, casual.

Maya was staring.

Staring at her arms.

At the scars.

Some old, white and faded. Some newer. Pink and raised.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Rumi tried to speak—to explain, to laugh it off, to do something—but the words felt like sand in her throat.

Maya took a slow step forward, eyes wide.

“What the hell…?” she whispered. “Rumi… are those…?”

Rumi’s voice cracked. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see. It’s not like that. I’m okay now.”

Maya’s expression twisted.

“Are you serious?” she hissed. “You cut yourself?”

“It’s not what you think—”

Maya backed away. “That’s disgusting.”

Rumi flinched.

“I didn’t do it for attention or anything, I—”

“You should’ve told me,” Maya said, voice rising. “God, Rumi, how long have you been hiding this?”

Rumi’s eyes burned. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“Well guess what,” Maya snapped, “you did.”

Rumi went still.

Maya was shaking her head, disgust written all over her face. “I—I can’t believe I ever shared a room with you. Slept next to you at sleepovers. And you had this going on the whole time?”

“I was trying to get better—”

“You’re sick,” Maya said, stepping back again. “And I don’t want to get dragged into whatever this is. I can’t be friends with someone who lies about something like that. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

Rumi felt the panic rising in her throat like heat.

“I didn’t lie,” she whispered. “I was just scared.”

Maya’s eyes went cold.

“Yeah,” she said. “Well now I’m scared too.”

And then she walked away.

Didn’t slam her locker.

Didn’t scream.

Just… left.

Like Rumi was something to be avoided.

Contagious.

Too much.

The sound of rain returned like a low drumbeat. Rumi’s throat was tight. She was shaking.

“That’s what she said,” Rumi whispered, blinking fast, voice raw. “She called me disgusting. And then she left.”

Mira was quiet. Zoey had gone completely still beside her.

“I thought she loved me,” Rumi said, eyes red and far away. “I thought if anyone would stay, it would be her. She saw me and ran.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

“Rumi…” Zoey breathed. “That’s not love. That’s never been love.”

Rumi hugged her arms around herself, curling smaller. “I think about it every time someone gets close. Every time I laugh too hard or take off my jacket or roll up my sleeves. I think—what if you see me and feel the same way she did?”

Mira’s heart twisted.

She leaned forward and cupped Rumi’s face with both hands, gentle but firm.

“I’m not her,” she said. “We’re not her. I don’t care how deep they go or how many there are or how long you’ve had them. They are not a reason to leave.”

Zoey wiped her eyes, scooting closer. “I don’t give a damn what your arms look like. I just care that you’re still here. That you’re safe. That you let us help.”

Rumi looked between them, tears silently rolling down her cheeks.

“You’re not going to lose us,” Mira repeated, voice barely above a whisper now. “Even if you panic. Even if you break. Even if you never fully believe us. We’re still here.”

Zoey leaned in, resting her head on Rumi’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I mean it,” she whispered. “You can fall apart a thousand times. We’ll be here to put the pieces back together.”

Rumi’s shoulders stayed rigid.

Mira’s hands still cradled her face, her thumbs brushing away the streaks on her cheeks—but Rumi didn’t lean in again. She blinked up at her with wide, red-rimmed eyes and whispered, hoarse:

“You don’t understand.”

Mira stilled.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be so broken people look at you differently,” Rumi said, voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like to be ashamed of your body—not because of how it looks, but because of what it says about you. What it reveals. You’ve never had to—”

“I do know,” Mira said quietly.

Rumi faltered.

Zoey looked up too, brows furrowed.

Mira exhaled, slow and heavy, like she was laying something down that she’d carried too long.

“I used to skip meals for days,” she said softly. “Then binge until I got sick. Then cry and do it all over again.”

The room fell still.

Rumi’s eyes widened. Zoey’s hand twitched where it rested on the couch, her whole body going tense.

“I grew up in a house where everything depended on my performance,” Mira continued, voice steady but low. “Grades, behaviour, image. I learned early that perfection was expected, and that love was… conditional. It depended on how quiet I could be. How well I could guess someone’s mood. How little space I took up.”

Zoey sat forward slowly, her expression shifting—confusion, then hurt, then soft realization. “Mira…”

Mira didn’t look at either of them yet. Her gaze was fixed somewhere over Rumi’s shoulder, like she wasn’t quite ready to meet their eyes.

“So I got good at it,” she said. “At reading the room. At leaving when things felt dangerous. At shrinking myself to stay safe. Controlling food was just another way to disappear. Another thing I could manage.”

She rubbed at the back of her neck.

“I didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Not even Zoey. I was embarrassed. And I hated myself for it. But cooking… weirdly enough, helped me start healing. It made food feel… warm again. Safe. Like something I could share instead of something I had to hide.”

Zoey’s eyes had filled with tears, but she said nothing—just reached over and grabbed Mira’s hand, holding it tight.

“I still struggle with it sometimes,” Mira added, finally meeting Rumi’s eyes again. “There are days where the shame creeps in. Where I skip lunch because I feel like I don’t deserve to eat. But I’m learning. I’m getting better.”

She let out a shaky breath.

“So don’t tell me I don’t understand. I don’t have your scars, Rumi. But I know what it’s like to live with ones people don’t see. To feel like your body’s betraying you. To feel like if anyone really saw what’s underneath, they’d run.”

Rumi was silent. She looked like someone had pulled the floor out from under her.

Mira leaned in again, but not forcefully—gently. “You’re not disgusting. You’re surviving. That takes strength. And I see that.”

Zoey, still holding Mira’s hand, reached over with her other and gently took one of Rumi’s too.

There was a long silence. The kind that wasn’t uncomfortable—but full. Heavy with everything that had just been said. Mira’s words still hung in the air like steam in the cold room, and Rumi sat between them, not quite crying anymore but not quite steady either.

Zoey rubbed her thumb along the back of Rumi’s hand. Then, in a quiet voice that didn’t sound like her usual bubbly self, she added:

“Well, since we’re all sharing…”

Mira and Rumi both turned toward her. She gave them a weak, crooked smile, then looked down at her knees.

“I got bullied pretty bad in high school.”

The words were simple. But they landed hard.

“They used to rip my sketchbooks,” Zoey said, softer now. “Drawings, lyrics, little comics I was proud of. They’d crumple them up or pass them around and laugh. One time, someone poured juice in my bag so everything inside would get ruined.”

She swallowed thickly.

“I’d eat alone a lot. Behind the music wing, or sometimes in the nurse’s office if I could fake a headache well enough. I stopped bringing lunch some days just to avoid the humiliation.”

Rumi’s chest ached. “Zoey…”

Zoey shook her head softly. “And it wasn’t just the art. A lot of it was… me. I was the ‘weird’ Korean girl. They’d ask me if I ate dogs. Tell me to go back to my country. Mimic my mom’s accent in front of me. Say I was trying too hard to be white if I wore jeans and tried to act normal, and too Asian if I brought kimbap for lunch.”

Her voice cracked, just barely, before she quickly cleared her throat.

“I spent so much time thinking something was wrong with me. That I was either too much or not enough or just… not right, somehow. But art was the one thing that made me feel like myself. Like I was me, even if no one else liked her.”

Mira was quiet beside her, jaw tense.

“I used to imagine what it would be like to have real friends,” Zoey said. “People who didn’t laugh when I got excited about marine biology or send me racist memes and call it ‘just jokes.’ I promised myself if I ever made it out, I’d never let anyone feel the way I did. I’d be the kind of friend I needed.”

Rumi’s hand tightened around hers.

Zoey looked up at her, watery smile returning. “So yeah. We all carry something.”

Mira reached across Rumi and touched Zoey’s cheek gently. “You’re the best person I know.”

Zoey’s laugh was soft. Shaky. “Don’t make me cry more, Mira, I already look like a cartoon onion.”

“You are a cartoon onion,” Rumi murmured, voice cracking through a laugh.

Zoey smiled at that, her chest finally easing.

“You’re not alone,” Mira said, pressing a light kiss to Rumi’s temple. “Not even close.”

Zoey squeezed her other hand. “Nope. You’re officially stuck with us.”

Rumi laughed under her breath. And for the first time since she had collapsed earlier that day, she believed them—just a little.

Chapter Text

The rain hadn’t let up since morning.

It painted slow, streaky trails down the living room windows, a steady percussion against the glass that made the entire apartment feel quieter—like the world had been turned down to low volume.

The place was cold, despite Mira turning on the heat and making tea. Twice.

Rumi was curled up on the couch in the living room, bundled beneath two thick blankets, cheeks flushed from the heat under her skin. Her breathing had evened out again, and she hadn’t coughed in a while which was all good, but she was still visibly exhausted from what transpired earlier.

Mira sat on the floor near her, cross-legged, dressed in an oversized hoodie and thick cotton pants. She watched the rain for a while. Then Rumi. Then the tea she hadn’t touched. Then Rumi again.

Zoey paced once across the room, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, then doubled back and grabbed a fuzzy sock from the dryer—looked at it, then put it back in.

“She’s still warm.” Mira sighed without looking up from Rumi. “We need to get her some medicine, there’s only so much these home remedies can do.”

“I’m worried Mira.” she said softly, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. “Me too Zo.”

Zoey sighed and sat on the floor, cuddling up next to her girlfriend, “No like- about everything. I’m worried about everything.”

Mira turned slightly, enough to see her face. Zoey wasn’t looking at her—just staring ahead at the carpet, her usual joyous expressions missing.

“About Rumi,” she added quietly. “About you. About if we’re doing too much, or not enough. About if she’s going to be okay. About if I’m going to mess this all up somehow.”

Mira’s expression softened. She slid her hand over Zoey’s and gave it a squeeze.

“You’re not messing anything up.”

“I don’t know, Mira,” Zoey said, a small wobbly laugh in her throat. “It feels like… I don’t know. Like I’m trying so hard to make everything okay but I don’t even know what ‘okay’ is anymore.”

“You’re doing great,” Mira murmured, brushing her thumb gently across Zoey’s knuckles. “We’re both doing our best.”

“But you’re like… grounded. You always know what to do. I’m just running around making stupid jokes and pretending I’m fine.”

Mira finally turned to face her completely, reaching up to tuck a strand of Zoey’s hair behind her ear. “Your jokes keep us breathing. You’ve kept Rumi laughing on one of her worst days. You kept me from shutting down three months ago when my parents showed up. And you care so much it physically hurts you—don’t act like that’s nothing.”

Zoey blinked. Her eyes had started to water and she hadn’t even noticed. She nudged her nose against Mira’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know,” Mira whispered. She kissed her temple. “I love you too, baby. More than anything.”

They sat there for a long moment, the quiet of the apartment wrapping around them like a blanket. The warmth from the candles pulsed gently contrasting the rain as it continued its rhythm.

-

A sound came from the couch as Rumi stirred in her sleep.

Zoey sat up straight. “Rumi?”

Mira was already halfway to her knees.

Rumi shifted under the blanket, groaning softly—her face twisted with discomfort. Her skin looked redder now, her cheeks blotchy and damp with sweat.

Zoey leaned over her quickly, gently touching her forehead. “Oh my god. Mira—she’s burning up.”

Mira crouched down beside them, her hand following Zoey’s. Her brows furrowed, “Shit. That’s worse than this morning. She’s sweating through everything.”

Rumi whimpered softly, her body curling slightly toward the back of the couch, like she was trying to shrink away from the heat inside her own skin.

“We need fever meds. Right now,” Mira said, already grabbing her phone. “We’re out of acetaminophen. And the nearest pharmacy’s like ten minutes.”

“I can go—” Zoey started.

“No.” Mira was firm but gentle. “You stay with her. Keep her cool. Wipe her down with the damp cloths from the fridge. Make sure she drinks something if she wakes up.”

Zoey swallowed, her eyes darting to Rumi’s form under the blankets. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

Mira grabbed her jacket and shoes, already halfway out the door. Before leaving, she turned back—her voice lower, more intimate.

“She’s going to be okay. You’ve got this, Zo.” Mira placed a soft kiss to her lips and left, the door clicking behind her.

Zoey took a breath, turning back toward the couch. Rumi whimpered again, and Zoey was already moving, grabbing the washcloth from the fridge with shaking hands.

“Okay, Rumi,” she whispered, crouching beside her. “You’re gonna be okay. Mira’s on her way. Just hang on for us.”

Rumi stirred again.

Zoey looked up immediately, setting the cloth aside and leaning closer. “Hey, hey—there you are.”

Rumi’s eyes blinked open slowly, glassy with fever, lashes damp from sweat. “…Zoey?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” she whispered, brushing hair from Rumi’s temple. “Mira ran out for medicine. She’ll be back soon.”

Rumi swallowed, her throat dry. “I feel like… absolute shit.”

“Sounds about right. You’ve been sweating like a pig in a sauna.”

“Thanks,” Rumi croaked, eyes barely open.

Zoey grinned and leaned in dramatically. “And yet… still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Rumi blinked at her, too fevered to roll her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

“That’s better,” Zoey said, gently lifting Rumi’s head to slip a cooler pillow beneath it. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” Zoey said, softer now. “I mean it. We just want you to get better.”

She dipped the cloth into the cold bowl beside her and dabbed it lightly at Rumi’s forehead and cheeks. Rumi didn’t flinch—her eyes fluttered shut, face melting into the touch. Her body still trembled faintly.

“Want me to distract you?” Zoey asked, after a moment of quiet.

Rumi made a faint hum of agreement.

“Okay, story time.” Zoey shifted onto her side, propping her head up on her elbow. “So like… I think you already know I’m a rage baiter.”

Rumi cracked open one eye. “…A little.”

“Rude, but fair.” Zoey smirked. “Anyway, back when Mira and I had only been dating for like, three weeks, I found out she had IBS. And, because I’m a very supportive girlfriend, I wrote her a rap.”

Rumi blinked.

“Dead serious. It had killer rhymes AND amazing metaphors AND an awesome beat. You wanna hear the chorus?”

“No.”

Zoey grinned. “Too bad. It went something like, ‘Mira on the move like her stomach’s in distress, she loves spicy food but her colon ain’t sayin yes.’

Rumi choked on a laugh, then winced. “Ow—ow, okay, too much—”

“Oh no,” Zoey gasped dramatically. “The bars were too fire. I’m sorry.”

“I cannot believe you said colon in a rap.”

“Oh there was more,” Zoey added proudly. “I rhymed bidet with soufflé. And fiber with—uh—vibes… her?” 

Rumi groaned. “You’re unwell.”

Zoey leaned in, nose nearly brushing Rumi’s. “And you love it.”

There was a pause. A quiet beat where neither of them moved, only the sound of rain was audible. Rumi’s fingers flexed under the blanket as she felt her blushing.

Then she whispered, barely audible: “…I really do.”

Zoey blinked, stunned for a second—just long enough for Rumi to close her eyes again and pretend she hadn’t said anything.

I’m already red and burning up from the fever, I can blush in peace.

Zoey didn’t push it, she just smiled to herself.

“Alright, sicko,” she whispered. “That confession means I’m writing you a rap next.”

“I’ll throw myself off this couch.”

“Better do it fast, I already have a verse, ‘Rumi in the room-y with the fever lookin’ steamy, too hot to handle, girl’s burnin’ up quickly.’

“I hate it here,” Rumi mumbled, but her voice was softer than ever.

Zoey just grinned, clearly satisfied with herself. Grateful, that she was able to put not just hers, but Rumi’s mind also, at ease.

It continued to like this for a while. Zoey doing what she does best—being herself, and Rumi smiling and blushing in response.

Then, the front door creaked open.

“Zo?” Mira’s voice called softly from the hallway. “I’ve got the meds.” Mira called softly as she slipped her shoes off in the entryway. Her hoodie was soaked at the shoulders, and her hair stuck slightly to her forehead. Her face was flushed from the wind, but her eyes scanned the living room immediately, settling on Zoey and Rumi.

Zoey looked up from her spot by the couch. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Mira didn’t reply—she was already crossing the room, dropping the pharmacy bag onto the coffee table and crouching beside them. Her gaze swept over Rumi’s face, then the sheen of sweat at her temples. “Still burning up?”

“Not really, she just fell asleep though,” Zoey said quietly. “But she was shivering.”

Mira moved gently, emptying the bag and pulling out the fever medicine, measuring a dose into the little plastic cup. “We need to get this in her before she dips again.”

Zoey helped shift Rumi slightly upright, her hands under Rumi’s back, whispering soft things like “I got you” and “Almost done, baby.” Mira knelt by her side, steadying the cup to her lips.

Rumi stirred.

Her eyes blinked open again, heavy and unfocused. “Mira…?”

“I’m right here,” Mira said softly.

Rumi’s gaze drifted, half-lidded and glossy. “I had a dream about you…”

The air froze.

Zoey paused mid-pillow-adjustment, blinking slowly.

So did Mira. “What?”

Rumi hummed, “You were standing in the rain and looking at me like I mattered.”

Rumi didn’t seem to notice the tension. Her voice was low and soft.

Mira’s throat bobbed.

“Ohh…” Zoey said after a beat, trying to shake the moment loose. “Wow. Stealing my girl in dreamland? Trifling.”

Mira opened her mouth—then closed it.

But Rumi wasn’t done. Her eyes barely stayed open as she mumbled, “S’okay. I dream about both of you.”

Silence.

Zoey looked at Mira. Mira looked at Zoey.

They both looked at Rumi, whose eyes fluttered shut again, lips slightly parted, breathing slow but still hot against Zoey’s hand.

“…Okay,” Zoey whispered, finally breaking the silence. “So I’m choosing to believe that was the fever talking, and not the part of her brain that freezes up and blushes every time we make contact with her.”

Mira furrowed her eyebrows and nodded, still keeping quiet as she went to grab a towel from the laundry room.

-

When Rumi settled again, tucked tight between her pillows and the clean towel Mira had slipped behind her neck, the girls sat close—Zoey on one side, Mira on the other. Their hands brushed once on the blanket and neither pulled away.

Rumi, even in sleep, smiled faintly.

“She dreams about both of us,” Zoey whispered. “You think she meant that?”

Mira was quiet for a moment. Then, without looking away from Rumi, “God. I hope so.”

“Me too.” Zoey sighed as she brushed a strand of her from Rumi’s face.

Rumi had drifted back into a lighter sleep, her cheek smushed against Zoey’s hoodie sleeve when her phone buzzed quietly on the coffee table. The screen lit up with a contact photo that could only be described as pure chaos—Jinu mid-sneeze, eyes half-closed, with a heart emoji over his head and a scribbled mustache that Rumi must’ve drawn herself.

Zoey saw it first.

“Oop. Your boy’s calling.” She reached for the phone and nudged Mira, who looked up from where she was tucking a blanket under Rumi’s feet. “Should we answer?”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Is he going to yell at us?”

Zoey grinned. “Only if he’s in a good mood. So let’s hope he’s having a terrible ass day”

She slid her thumb across the screen and held the phone up.

“Hi, you’re live on the air with your favourite couple,” Zoey chirped.

Jinu’s face appeared instantly, eyebrows raised and hair mussed like he’d just rolled out of bed despite it being nearly eight. “Took you long enough. I’ve been texting all day—”

“She’s resting,” Mira said from behind the phone. “She’s okay. Fever spiked, but we got her medicine and she’s sleeping now.”

Jinu’s expression softened immediately. “Thank god. Is she still flushed? Does she sound raspy?”

“She was earlier,” Zoey said. “She said she dreamt about Mira and I, almost set the apartment on fire from sheer gay panic.”

Jinu snorted. “She what?”

“You heard me,” Zoey grinned. “Said Mira was standing in the rain looking at her like she mattered. Like, poetry-level type shit dream.”

Mira groaned softly behind the camera, and Jinu absolutely beamed.

“You’re kidding,” he said, delighted. “God, she’s so dramatic when she’s sick. Last time she had a fever she told me she dreamt she was a haunted mirror and everyone kept seeing their worst fears through her.”

“That’s horrifying,” Mira said flatly.

“Omg like in Harry Potter with the wardrobe-“

“NO HARRY POTTER ZOEY.” Mira and Jinu both said at the same time.

Zoey huffed and crossed her arms mumbling something inaudible under her breath.

“How’s she been otherwise? Has she eaten?”

“She had a little soup and fruit,” Mira said. “Still weak though she doesn’t have much of an appetite.”

Jinu frowned. “She likes dak kalguksu when she’s sick. And scrambled eggs but only if they’re soft. And don’t let her trick you into giving her too much water at once—she gets nauseous.”

“Noted. But don’t worry we’ve been taking care of her,” Zoey said, softer now. “Promise.”

Jinu paused and nodded. “I know. Sorry. I just—I know how she gets when she’s feeling vulnerable.”

“We do too,” Mira said. “We’ve got her.”

There was a beat of silence, then

“Oh!” Jinu sat up straighter. “Tell her when she wakes up that Abby tried to dye his roots blonde and ended up with a banana peel mullet. I swear to God he looks like a lemon who gave up halfway through life.”

Zoey snorted. “Noooo.”

“Swear on my life. He tried to FaceTime me and I was like, Sir this is a Wendy’s. We don’t accept interviews for Ronald McDonald’”

Even Mira cracked a smile.

Jinu leaned closer to the screen. “Also—tell Rumi I read the poem she sent me before she got sick. The one about the girl with the hands that never shake?”

Mira stilled. Zoey’s eyes flicked toward her.

“It was beautiful,” Jinu continued, voice lower now. “And I think she should show it to you two.”

Mira looked at Rumi, then back at the screen. “We’ll ask her when she’s up for it.”

“Good.” He nodded, then squinted. “Okay, now pan the camera. I wanna see her.”

Zoey gently angled the phone toward the couch. Rumi, cheeks flushed and her breathing slow, was curled tightly into the blankets, a sole strand of hair clung to her forehead.

Jinu visibly melted. “My fierce, angsty little lavender storm cloud.”

“She’s safe,” Mira said again. “We’ll keep her safe.”

Jinu gave them both a long look. Then smiled. “I believe you.”

The conversation carried on a little longer as the three of them bonded over if-i-didn’t-get-this-on-camera-no-one-would’ve-believed-me stories, and delivering the most dreadful side eye to Zoey, whenever she dared to mention anything H**rry Pott** related.

-

Later that night the apartment had settled into a lull again. The kind of quiet that only came after a storm of chaos. The medicine had started kicking in, the heat was humming from the vents, and the steady patter of rain was still whispering at the windows.

Zoey had finally dozed off on the edge of the couch, chin tilted slightly toward her chest, one of Rumi’s wrists held loosely in her hand like she was afraid it might disappear if she let go. Mira sat across the room now, cross-legged on the floor with her back against the wall, head resting on her folded arms, a half-finished mug of tea forgotten beside her.

Then Rumi stirred.

It wasn’t sudden—more like a flicker behind her eyes, the faint return of awareness after hours drifting in and out. Her throat felt raw, her body achy and heavy under the weight of the blankets. She blinked slowly, vision adjusting to the dim light of the apartment and the silhouettes of the people around her.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stared at the ceiling. Let herself take in the warmth. The smell of mint tea and fabric softener. The faint rumble of Zoey’s breathing.

Her phone buzzed weakly on the edge of the coffee table, screen lighting up with a new text:

[Jinu💀]

missed ur soul. told ur wives to keep u fed. also u look like a toasted marshmallow burrito in that blanket <3 text me when your up. or else…

Rumi scoffed and blinked for a second,

dumbass, it’s “you’re”

she corrected internally, then slowly, with trembling fingers, she reached for the phone.

The home screen was cluttered with missed notifications: One missed call from Jinu, three texts, and a screenshot of what looked like Abby’s hair mid-crisis. The thumbnail was all yellow streaks and unholy bangs.

She huffed out a laugh that turned into a cough as she saw a text from her aunt that she refused to open now. 

Zoey stirred instantly. “Rumi?”

Her voice cracked with how fast she sat up. Mira jolted, blinking herself back into full awareness. Both of them were suddenly beside her, one on each side.

Zoey put a hand to her forehead. “Still a little warm, but not burning up. Thank God.”

“You scared the hell out of us,” Mira said softly, crouching beside her. “I almost got kicked out for climbing a pharmacy shelf.”

Rumi blinked at both of them, still foggy. “How long was I out?”

Zoey grinned. “Long enough to drool on two pillows.”

“And talk in your sleep,” Mira added with a teasing tone, though her eyes were gentle.

Rumi’s brows pinched. “What? What did I say?”

Zoey smirked. “Oh, nothing majorrrr. Just that you dreamt about Mira.”

Rumi’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

Mira tilted her head. “You don’t remember?”

“I—no? I said that?”

“You did,” Zoey confirmed, clearly amused but trying to hold back her giddiness. “And I quote ‘She was standing in the rain and looked at me like I mattered’ end quote.”

Rumi groaned and hid her face behind the blanket. “Kill me.”

Mira chuckled. “Too late. You already gave us all the material we need.”

Zoey leaned closer, voice sing-songy. “You dreamt about Miraaaaa, oh and me too apparently. Both of us”

Rumi froze. “This is so embarrassing.”

Mira looked down at her and smiled faintly, then stood. “I’ll heat up the porridge.”

As she padded toward the kitchen, Rumi sank deeper into the couch, her fever-fogged brain spinning in slow circles. Zoey passed her the phone, and the moment their fingers brushed, something tender sparked again.

“You really stayed?” Rumi asked, voice soft.

“Like a clingy raccoon,” Zoey said, leaning her head back. “Even held your hand through three cough attacks. And I didn’t even take one single embarrassing video. That’s how you know it’s love.”

Rumi smiled softly and looked at Zoey with appreciation, “Thank you, for…everything. I was so sure after you guys saw…my scars, everything would change.” Rumi looked down at her lap as her brows furrowed. “And it did, but definitely not in the way I expected.”

Zoey slid her hand into hers, giving it a small squeeze. “I’ll always be here for you Rums, I love and care about you, a lot.” Zoey placed a lingering kiss on Rumi’s cheek as she rested her head on her chest.

“I- I love you too Zoey” Rumi stuttered as the words left her mouth. She felt her temperature suddenly rise again as her finger reached up to subtly ghost the area where Zoey’s lips were. 

Under her, Zoey smiled into her shirt, heart hammering so loudly she was sure Rumi could feel it. But she didn’t say anything right away. She just let her stay there—tucked into her side, wrapped in warmth and honesty, like the most fragile thing in the world. 

Mira returned with the porridge and they took turns feeding and caring for Rumi until the trio eventually fell asleep on the couch in each other's arms. 

Even though she was sick and hadn’t showered, Rumi was the happiest and most content she’d been in a while. Completely forgetting her aunt had even messaged.

Chapter Text

The morning crept in slowly, barely nudging through the heavy grey clouds that still hung over the city. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the world outside remained soft and muted. Inside the apartment, the quiet was sacred—cushioned in warmth, sleep, and the gentle sound of Mira breathing in her room.

Zoey moved quietly as she gently lifted Mira’s arm that was slung around her waist. Mira’s eyebrows furrowed as Zoey held her breath, carefully sliding out of her hold. Thankfully, Mira just sighed and curled up into the blanket, still asleep. Zoey frowned,

she must’ve been really tired, usually even blinking too hard wakes her.

She kissed Mira’s temple softly as she got up—leaving the room, but not before taking one more last at her girlfriend. She looked peaceful. And after everything—she deserved that peace.

So Zoey let her sleep.

Rumi, however, had begun to stir again. Zoey noticed it as she passed the living room—her thin-blanket-wrapped figure shifting on the couch, brows pinched, skin a little less pale from yesterday.

She padded over and crouched beside her.

“Hey,” Zoey whispered. “Still with me?”

Rumi’s lashes fluttered before her eyes opened, slow and glassy. “Kind of.”

“How are you feeling?”

“You know, just another day in paradise, minus the beach and sun. And bottomless cocktails” she murmured, voice a bit scratchy.

Zoey smiled softly. “Yeah, you look like an undeveloped fetus. Mira’s still sleeping, so I figured I’d be your nurse this morning.”

Rumi made a soft noise, somewhere between laughter and agreement—too tired to argue and too sick to pretend she didn’t need the help.

Zoey gently brushed Rumi’s baby hairs back and felt her forehead. Still warm, but not blazing. Okay,  progress.

“Do you wanna try a bath?” Zoey offered. “It might help your muscles and the steam could clear your sinuses. I’ll help.”

Rumi hesitated, chewing on her lip. The thought of standing in a shower made her stomach turn, and a bath did sound nice. But the idea of Zoey helping her undress—seeing more of her body, of the scars—

“I’ll be chill about it,” Zoey added quickly, sensing the hesitation. “I won’t look. Unless you want me to. I mean—oh my god—not in a pervy way—I mean like, respectfully—platonically? No, not platonically, fuck that sounds even worse-”

“Zoey,” Rumi croaked, cracking a smile despite the fever. “It’s fine.”

They both looked at each other for a second.

“Okay then,” Zoey said, cheeks a little pink as she stood. “I’ll go run it. You just…relax for a sec.”

Rumi watched her go, heart thudding too fast for someone who’s supposed to be a friend. It’s fine. It’s Zoey. She’s like this with everyone. So why does it affect her like this?

Zoey returned a few minutes later with a triumphant little smile and a few damp spots on her pants. “Okay, tub’s filling. Got bubbles, lavender stuff Mira likes—oh and I even lit a candle, it’s giving spa day.”

“You lit a candle?” Rumi raised her eyebrows.

“Uh, yeah,” Zoey said, leaning down to carefully help her sit up. “This is you we’re talking about. You deserve good lighting and even better smells.”

Rumi let Zoey lift the blanket and steady her upright. Her muscles ached, but it was manageable—especially with the way Zoey’s hand was braced carefully against the small of her back. 

“And before you say anything,” Zoey added as she tucked Rumi’s arm over her shoulder, “you can keep your tank or whatever on if that makes you more comfortable. I won’t judge. I’ve worn a bra in the bath once—it was for an art project, but still.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Rumi murmured, but her voice sounded far too fond to be annoyed.

They made it slowly to the bathroom, each shuffled step filled with tension that neither of them dared acknowledge aloud. Zoey helped her sit on the edge of the tub, then turned to adjust the water, checking the temperature again with her wrist.

“It’s perfect,” she said proudly, glancing over her shoulder.

Rumi nodded, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the hem of her hoodie. But her hands stalled.

Zoey noticed.

“Hey. No pressure.” Her voice was quieter now, gentle. “I can step out while you get in. Or I can stay and help, but I won’t look. Whatever you want.”

Rumi didn’t speak at first. Her eyes flicked down to her arms, to the faded shadows just beneath the sleeves, to the discomfort blooming in her chest.

“You’re really not going to think differently of me?” she asked, voice paper-thin.

Zoey turned fully now, kneeling in front of her. “Rumi,” she said, serious all of a sudden. “I already think the world of you. You could have twelve eyes and a tail and I’d still be offering you hot soup and bubble baths.”

That pulled a breathy laugh from her as she nodded once, shakily. “Okay. You can stay. Just… no funny business. If another ‘Itty Titty Witty Cookie Swirl’ incident happens—I’m suing.”

Zoey raised a hand solemnly. “Scouts honour.”

Rumi gave her a half smile as Zoey helped her peel off the hoodie slowly—her eyes stayed on Rumi’s face, focused, tender—completely void of judgment.

Once she was down to her tank and underwear, Zoey steadied her while she climbed into the water. Rumi sunk in slowly, her breath catching as the warmth enveloped her sore limbs. A soft sigh slipped from her lips as she relaxed back against the tub wall, her braid spilling on the floor.

Zoey folded a towel for her to rest her head on and perched on the closed toilet lid nearby, her eyes still gentle and full of awe.

“You’re really pretty, you know that?” she said after a moment, completely unprompted.

Rumi groaned. “Zoey.”

“What? You are.” Zoey flutter kicked her dangling feet off the toilet. 

“Stop it.” Her voice cracked, cheeks blooming pink. She turned her face away from the candlelight, suddenly very interested in the bubbles. But she couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through her chest. Or the way her heart thudded as Zoey tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and whispered, with complete sincerity,

“You’re safe with me.”

Rumi didn’t answer at first. She couldn’t. Not with the way her pulse was sprinting and her stomach twisted—not from sickness, but from guilt. Guilt that whispered:

She’s Mira’s. You shouldn’t feel this way.

And yet—here she was.

-

A soft knock echoed from the front door.

Zoey’s head snapped up. “Huh, must be the landlord. Be right back, okay?”

Rumi nodded, still sunk into the warmth of the tub, cheeks burning for reasons unrelated to her fever. “Okay.”

Zoey lingered a second longer than necessary, then reluctantly peeled herself away and padded out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

Rumi let out a long breath the moment she was alone. The silence felt different now—less weighty, but still charged. Her skin buzzed where Zoey’s fingers had grazed her. 

You’re safe with me.

She swallowed and forced herself to focus. The water was cooling, and her joints no longer ached, she felt a little stronger. Strong enough to finish washing up. She reached for the soft loofah and gently dragged it across her skin, careful over her arms, letting herself take her time. The bubbles had mostly faded now, just a few clinging to the edges of the porcelain.

When she finally pulled the plug, she moved slowly, bracing herself on the tub’s rim. She wrung out her tank and underwear, then stripped them fully, wrapping herself in the towel Zoey had left on the hook. Her legs trembled slightly as she stood—but she stayed upright.

She cracked the door open, steam trailing out like fog, and stepped into the hallway, drying the damp baby hairs with one end of the towel. And then she saw her.

Celine.

Standing just inside the open front door, umbrella dripping rainwater, a perfect wedge heel still poised halfway across the doormat. Her expression unreadable at first. Then—she arched her brows, eyes flickering to Rumi.

Rumi stopped cold, heart dropping straight through her stomach. Zoey was standing just a few steps in front of her, caught mid-sentence, her entire body tense.

Celine tilted her head slowly, eyes dragging down from the top of Rumi’s towel-wrapped frame to her messy hair.

But Rumi didn’t speak. She Couldn’t. She stood frozen in the hallway like a deer caught in headlights, towel gripped tighter around her body, throat suddenly bone-dry.

“You weren’t answering my messages. Thought maybe you died.” Celine said, face void of any expression.

Rumi swallowed hard, eyes flicking to Zoey, who looked livid—one hand already flexing by her side like she didn’t know what to do with it.

Rumi felt herself shrinking. The towel now felt paper-thin and useless.

“Get dressed, we're going for a drive. I need to talk with you…please”

Zoey went to protest but she locked eyes with Rumi as she nodded, “Okay” and quickly headed to her room—mind reeling. 

What does she want now? Things are finally starting to work in her favour. Why is she set on ruining Rumi’s happiness?

Rumi sighed as she traced the faint scars along her arms—reluctantly throwing on a hoodie and sweatpants before leaving the safety of her room.

-

The drive was quiet.

Rumi sat stiffly in the passenger seat, arms crossed over her stomach as the city blurred past. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands even though the car wasn’t that cold. She kept her gaze focused out the window, trying not to look at Celine too much, trying not to think too hard about how she randomly showed up and requested to talk.

Celine didn’t speak for a long time. Her hands were steady on the wheel, but her expression flickered—between guilt, hesitation, and something else. Regret, maybe. Or grief. Maybe both.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” she said softly.

“I didn’t either,” Rumi muttered.

Celine glanced over, but Rumi didn’t meet her eyes. “You look so much like her,” she said quietly.

Rumi flinched. “Please don’t.”

Silence again.

They drove until the buildings thinned and the road curved into hillsides—lush with soaked grass from the rain, the sky still overcast. When the car finally slowed, Rumi realized where they were.

Her stomach dropped.

“…Where are we?” she asked, even though she already knew. The lump in her throat was already forming, thick and tight.

Celine parked. She turned off the engine, but didn’t move. “I know I wasn’t the parent you needed me to be,” she said softly. “I know I’ve done things—said things—that… you probably won’t forgive. I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Rumi stared ahead. The windshield wipers clicking and the patter of rain were the only sounds that came through.

“I thought I was doing what was right,” Celine continued. “I thought I was loving you the way she would’ve wanted.”

Rumi clenched her jaw. “What does that mean?”

Celine swallowed. Her voice dropped. “It means… I tried to erase the parts of you that scared me. The parts that reminded me of her. Because loving her—” her voice cracked, just barely, “—was the best and worst thing I ever did.”

Rumi blinked and slowly turned toward her. “What?”

Celine’s eyes welled up but she didn’t wipe them.

“She wasn’t just my best friend, Rumi,” she whispered. “She was… she was the love of my life. And I lost her. I lost her, and then I had you. And I thought—I thought if I raised you the way she would’ve wanted, I could honour her. But I didn’t raise you like her. I raised you like my fears.”

The breath left Rumi’s lungs. “You… you were together?”

Celine nodded, tears sliding down now.

“I was young. We were wreckless. But it was real. And when she got sick, she made me promise to protect you. To keep you safe. But I couldn’t separate the parts of you that reminded me of her—from the parts of you that scared me. The queerness, the softness, the rage. I tried to push it all down and call it parenting. But I was just scared and grieving.”

Rumi stared at her, the pieces clicking into place in her head.

Every time Celine flinched when Rumi wore certain clothes. Every time she changed the subject when Rumi cried. Every time she scolded her for being “too sensitive,” or “too much like your mother.” Every time she told her that she wouldn’t want to end up like her.

All this time, she wasn’t just talking about her sickness. She was talking about love.

“You loved her,” Rumi said slowly, 

“I still do,” Celine whispered.

They sat in the silence for a moment, the cemetery still and wet outside the windshield.

Then Rumi pushed open the door and stepped out.

The grave was near the center—unassuming, with a smooth stone and an etched flower in one corner. Rumi’s knees nearly buckled as she stood over it, a thousand things unspoken bubbling behind her ribs.

“I should’ve known,” she whispered. “I should’ve known…you both were so scared.”

Celine said as she stood behind her, a respectful distance away. Rumi looked back once.

“I’m still angry at you,” she said, voice raw. “For everything. For how you treated me. For how you tried to erase me. For how you made me believe no one could love this part of me”

“I know,” Celine said. “You have every right to be.”

“But thank you,” Rumi added, “for finally telling me the truth and apologizing.”

Celine didn’t respond. She just nodded—eyes on the grave, shoulders trembling with the weight of her own memories.

Rumi looked down again at the name carved into stone. Her mother’s name. 

Ryu Mi-yeong

Rumi didn’t even realize she was crying until she saw the way Celine’s face broke at the sight of her tears. Then Rumi crossed the space between them and collapsed into her arms.

Celine held her like she’d been waiting years to do it—arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders, face buried in Rumi’s hair. It wasn’t near perfect but it was real and passionate. 

Celine whispered, “I love you,” like it was a truth she’d finally learned how to say. And for once, Rumi didn’t flinch from hearing it.

Chapter Text

The rain didn’t stop, but neither of them moved.

Rumi stayed curled into Celine’s arms, both of them damp from the drizzle, both breathing in shallow, shaky exhales that didn’t match the silence around them. The scent of wet grass and stone clung to them, the sky an endless curtain of grey. For the first time in a very long time, Rumi didn’t flinch when she was held by her. There was still grief there—deep and raw—but not as jagged. Not slicing her open from the inside anymore. Just a dull ache, softened by the way Celine’s hands trembled around her back, like she was afraid that letting go would make it all vanish.

Neither of them said a word as they walked back to the car, shoes squelching in the wet dirt, hair sticking to their faces. Celine reached out once to pull Rumi’s hood up and Rumi didn’t stop her.

The drive started the way it had begun—quiet. The rain tapped softly on the windshield, and Rumi leaned her head against the passenger window, her breath fogging the glass. The tension that once sat between them had thinned, but something else hung there now. Fragile and uncertain.

Celine broke the silence first.

“I want to send you back to therapy,” she said, voice steady, not demanding. “Only if you want to go. If you think it would help.”

Rumi blinked slowly. Her reflection stared back at her in the window, tired eyes and rain-streaked hair.

“I think I’d like that,” she said after a beat. “I… I think I need it.”

Celine nodded once. “Okay.”

There was a pause before she added, “Have you… have you been okay lately? Like… really okay?”

Rumi didn’t answer right away. Her hand pulled the sleeves down a little further over her knuckles. “I haven’t relapsed,” she said quietly. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

Celine let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay,” she said again, even softer this time. Rumi turned to look at her, finally, eyes sharp but open. “What made you come clean?” she asked. “Why now?”

Celine’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel. She kept her eyes on the road, but her voice turned more reflective, almost distant. “Because I saw how much you’re loved.”

Rumi blinked again, confused.

Celine continued, “I don’t mean loved like… what I thought was right. I mean truly, by people who know you. Who care for you without condition. I saw what it looks like when someone doesn’t just tolerate your personality, but cherishes it.”

Rumi’s stomach turned in quiet disbelief. Celine had never spoken like this before.

“So what?” Rumi asked cautiously. “You woke up one day and just had a revelation?”

“No,” Celine said, then paused. “Someone reached out.”

Rumi’s head tilted, brows drawing together. “…Who?”

Celine didn’t answer right away. She signaled and turned onto the road leading back toward the apartment, rain smearing the windshield again under the wipers.

“Just know,” she said eventually, “you have amazing people in your corner. Who love you. Who were willing to stand up for you even when they didn’t have to. That’s what made me realize how wrong I’d been. And how badly I failed you.”

Rumi stared at her. But Celine didn’t offer more than that, the car now returning back to the previous silence. 

-

By the time they pulled into the complex lot, the rain had slowed to a thin mist. Rumi’s hair clung to her cheeks again, despite the hood. The inside of her hoodie was damp from the air, and her socks squished in her shoes. She felt cold and clammy and more emotionally exhausted than physically now—but something else had settled in her chest, too.

Relief. Not full nor complete. But something close to it.

Celine parked the car and turned to her. “I’ll send you the therapy options this week,” she said softly. “I promise I won’t push anything, you’ll have the final say.”

Rumi nodded. “Okay.”

She opened the door and stepped out without another word. Celine looked at her from a distance and smiled as she walked away. 

-

Inside the apartment, the warm scent of Mira’s cooking clung faintly to the walls, and Zoey was curled up on the couch with her sketchpad in her lap, her pen stilled in her hand as soon as Rumi came in, immediately kicking of her shoes and taking the soaked socks off.

“Hey!” Zoey shot up. “Are you okay? That took a while.”

Rumi offered a faint, tired smile. “I’m fine. It was just…talking.”

Before Zoey could ask anything else, Mira emerged from the hallway, eyes sharp, towel slung over one shoulder like she’d just finished drying dishes.

And the moment she saw Rumi—hair wet, hoodie damp, visibly shivering—her entire expression dropped into something tight and barely restrained. “You’re soaked,” Mira said, stepping closer. “You’re still sick. What the hell—”

Rumi opened her mouth to speak, but Mira cut in again, her voice harder this time. “She let you walk through the rain like this? While you’re still recovering?” Rumi blinked, surprised by the sheer force of concern in her tone.

“I had my hood up—”

“Not good enough,” Mira snapped, pacing once before she muttered under her breath, “Even an apology she can’t fucking do right.”

The words weren’t meant to land like they did. But they hit.

Rumi flinched.

Zoey glanced between them, tension climbing fast. “Mira…”

“No,” Rumi said suddenly, turning toward Mira, voice low but steady. “What did you mean by that?”

Mira froze. “What?”

“That,” Rumi repeated. “The apology. How would you know about it?”

Mira hesitated, her gaze shifting slightly. “Rumi—”

“You knew she was going to apologize before I even told you I saw her. How?”

Zoey’s eyes widened slightly. Her hand dropped from her sketchpad. Mira sighed through her nose, jaw tightening. “Because I told her to.”

The room went still.

Rumi stared at her, mind scrambling to process.

“What?”

Mira crossed her arms, the towel slipping slightly off her shoulder. She didn’t look defensive—she looked guilty. “When you were sick. Jinu called, we didn’t want to wake you so we answered it. He was worried about you, he told us a few things to make for you that you like when you’re sick. Then a message came in from Celine. I—I saw it.”

Rumi’s chest constricted.

“I wasn’t trying to snoop,” Mira added quickly, “but it popped up while Zoey was holding your phone. And the message was…” she trailed off, swallowing hard. “Cruel and fucking degrading.”

Zoey nodded slowly, as if just remembering. “It was about your scars.”

Rumi’s face paled.

“I couldn’t ignore it,” Mira said, stepping forward. “I went through the university’s page and found her profile with her contact information. I used the number listed under it to text her. I- didn’t want to snoop through your phone for it.”

“You what?” Rumi asked, voice cracking.

“I told her she was wrong,” Mira continued, eyes holding hers. “I told her we knew. About the scars. About everything. And that we love you. Not in spite of it—but because of your amazing personality Rumi, every part of you is loved by us,” Mira looked away and cleared her throat. “…and that her silence, her shame—it only made everything worse. I told her she didn’t deserve to speak to you the way she had. That whatever fucked up trauma filled life she experienced, shouldn’t be paid for by you. And that she owed you an apology.”

Rumi couldn’t breathe. She felt everything all at once—shock, confusion, anger, but above all, something else. Something warm.

“Fuck I even told her you were sick, and struggling to move, and she was there having a bitch fit about something that’s entirely a non issue.”

Rumi walked over and lowered herself slowly onto the edge of the couch, hoodie still damp, hands clasped in her lap. Her eyes flicked between Zoey and Mira—her brain still catching up.

“You… you did all that?” she whispered.

“I’m sorry Rumi, I didn't want to make things worse,” Mira said. “I know that wasn’t my place but I couldn’t stand back and do nothing. You looked like someone who’d given up—like you had accepted the treatment she gave you. And I’ve seen that look before—I couldn’t let you continue to suffer because of her.”

Rumi’s throat burned. “So she only came today because of you.”

“She came because she felt the guilt of what she should’ve done years ago,” Mira corrected. “I just lit the match. She chose to walk through that fire.”

Rumi didn’t speak. Zoey sank beside her, reaching out gently but not touching her yet. “You okay?” Rumi blinked back the water in her eyes—except it wasn’t from the rain this time.

“I think so,” she said. “I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever do that for me. Especially someone who hasn’t known me for that long”

“You have us now,” Mira said. “You always will.”

Zoey carefully leaned into Rumi as a tear slipped out. And in this moment—Rumi felt something she hadn’t felt in years. She loved Zoey—she loved Mira.

Fuck.

-

It took a while for the room to settle.

They decided to refrain from asking Rumi any more questions tonight and she’d come to them when she’s ready. Zoey disappeared for a moment to grab a dry towel, returning with a determined little frown and a hoodie of Mira’s that looked two sizes too big. She knelt beside Rumi and carefully began patting her hair dry.

“Your braid’s all frizzy,” Zoey mumbled gently. “Looks kinda like a dying fern. You make it look cute though.”

Rumi let out a soft laugh, a shaky exhale that made her shoulders finally drop. She didn’t flinch when Zoey’s fingers grazed her jaw. Didn’t shrink away when Mira knelt in front of her next and offered a hoodie and placed a bowl of dak kalguksu and soft scrambled eggs on the table.

Rumi looked at the bowl with wide eyes, “Is that- you made me dak kalguksu and eggs?”

 Mira blushed slightly and brushed it off. “Yeah it wasn’t hard. Here put this on,” Mira said softly, holding it out. “Mine’s warmer. Yours is soaked.”

Rumi blinked then took it in both hands and nodded. She peeled off her own hoodie without shame this time, still damp from the rain and heavy from everything else, and slipped Mira’s on. It smelled like lavender and laundry soap and something deeply familiar.

Mira went out of her way to make my favourite comfort food…could she possibly? No, that's stupid. She’s in love with Zoey. Zoey. Oh my gosh, what is wrong with me?”

By the time she looked up again, both girls had settled beside her—Zoey on her right, draped over the arm of the couch with her legs folded beneath her, and Mira on the floor to her left, one knee propped, arms resting over it like she wasn’t planning on going anywhere.

The soft lamp light painted everything golden. The rain had finally stopped tapping at the windows. And for the first time since her fever broke, Rumi felt something different coursing through her:

Steadiness.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” she said quietly, voice almost buried in the hush of the apartment.

Zoey reached for her hand and laced their fingers. “You didn’t scare me.”

“You worried me,” Mira admitted. “But scaring someone requires pushing them away. You didn’t do that. You just… kinda curled in.”

Rumi glanced between them, taking a sip of her soup “And you still came closer.”

“Of course we did,” Zoey said. “You’re one of us now. We do soup, baths, and the best of movies in this household. You’re legally obligated to feel good with us.”

Mira grimaced, “Yeah…not so sure on that last one Zo.”

Rumi huffed a small laugh again, tears still glinting in her lashes. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Mira tilted her head slightly, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “So are you.” For a long time, none of them said anything.

Zoey rested her head on Rumi’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. Mira didn’t move, but her fingers brushed against Rumi’s knee.

Eventually, Rumi spoke.

“Thank you…for texting her. For saying what I couldn’t. For caring when I didn’t even know how to for myself or let anyone care.”

“You don’t have to know how yet,” Mira said. “You just have to let us try.”

“I’m trying,” Rumi whispered.

“And that’s enough,” Zoey said, sleep already in her voice. “That’s everything.” Rumi put her soup down and leaned her cheek against the crown of Zoey’s head and let herself close her eyes too. Mira reached up and gently tucked a damp strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear before resting her head against the cushion beside her.

The room dimmed as the night crept in again. But it wasn’t lonely anymore. It wasn’t filled with silence that hurt. It was quiet like when a heart settles knowing it’s finally safe.

And for the first time in a long time, Rumi let herself believe it could stay that way.

-

It was well past 10 pm now.

The storm had eased into quiet puddles and wet pavement outside, and the apartment had a stillness to it—all hollowed out, but somehow comfortable.

Rumi blinked slowly from her corner of the couch, wrapped in Mira’s hoodie like armor. Mira had given her another dose of cold meds “just to be safe,” she said matter-of-factly, as she handed her a cup of water. Rumi accepted it gratefully and gave Mira a small smile before sitting upright.

“I think I’m ready to sleep in my room again,” she said, which made Zoey sit up straighter. “Really?”

Rumi nodded. “The couch’s been great, but I think I want… I don’t know. My comfy amazing spectacular bed.”

Mira laughed and stood up, brushing her hands on her sweats. “How much medicine did I give you? You sure you’re good walking there on your own?”

“I dunno but I’ll crawl if I have to,” Rumi said, managing a faint smile.

Zoey made a dramatic pouting noise and pulled her into a gentle hug. “I’ll miss you and your disease breath, but I get it.”

Rumi laughed, sleepy and weak and beautiful in the soft lamplight. “Thanks for everything. Both of you.”

Then she turned and padded down the hall—barefoot, wrapped in Mira’s hoodie, her purple braid swinging behind her. 

Once her door clicked shut Zoey flopped back on the couch, arms stretched overhead. “She said thank you,” she said dreamily.

Mira sank onto the cushion beside her, slower, more thoughtful. “She did.”

There was a beat of silence, and then—

“…We’re in love with her, aren’t we,” Zoey said, her voice casual and honest.

Mira didn’t answer right away. She stared at the ceiling, lips parted slightly, like she was trying to measure her breath before her words.

Zoey rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “I mean, I already knew I was halfway gone, but watching her today? Letting herself cry, letting me help her bathe, wearing your hoodie like it’s some knight’s cape—Mira. Be serious. We’re in deep.”

Mira finally looked at her.

“I know,” she said quietly.

Zoey smiled, soft and conspiratorial. “So, what’s the plan?”

“…Plan?” Mira echoed, blinking.

“To get her to fall in love with us, obviously,” Zoey whispered, like it was a secret too precious for the air. “We can’t just hope it happens. We need strategy. Tender breakfasts. Quality time. Slow forehead touches.”

Mira gave her a flat look.

“We’ll just be ourselves.”

“Oh no then we’re definitely fucked.”

Zoey continued,. “Anyways, oh, and eye contact. Not like the staring stalker eye-contact you do. Like the lingering eye-contact. The kind that says ‘I see you’ and also maybe ‘I’d die for you.’ Something subtle, but sexy.”

“Zoey,” Mira said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “She just cried over her dead mother’s grave. She’s sick. Her self-worth is in shambles. And you’re planning forehead touches? And I don’t stare.”

“Sure…” Zoey said and continued, “I said slow forehead touches,” she argued. “We’ll ease her in.”

Mira groaned and flopped back against the cushion, arms folded tight across her chest. Zoey tilted her head, grinning a little. “Are you spiraling.”

“I am not spiraling,” Mira said flatly.

“Okay,” Zoey said, already pulling the blanket over both of them. “Then you definitely won’t mind when Rumi starts smiling at me like I hung the stars and touching my arm for longer than necessary instead of the both of us.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed.

Zoey grinned harder.

“…You are the worst,” Mira muttered.

“You love me.”

Mira just looked at her, and something ignited in Mira when Zoey said that, “Yeah I do, and I can’t remember the last time I made you feel it.”

Zoey blinked, startled by the sudden gravity of it, her smile faltering.

“Mira…”

But Mira was already shifting, eyes on her like she’d been holding something back for days—weeks—and couldn’t contain it anymore. She leaned in, slow, cautious but hungry, one hand reaching out to tuck a piece of Zoey’s bangs behind her ear.

Then, her voice dropped—low and hoarse.

“Come with me.”

Zoey’s heart stuttered as Mira stood and reached for her hand. The blanket slipped off both of them as Zoey let herself be pulled up. There was no smirk on Mira’s face. No teasing glint. Just raw focus—desire and need. 

Mira guided them gently down the hallway, fingers interlaced tightly. But when they passed Zoey’s door, she tugged her inside—pushed it open and pressed her back against the wall before she could speak. Mira’s lips found hers in an instant—slow but firm, like she needed to remember her. Like she needed Zoey to feel it.

Zoey moaned into the kiss, arms looping around Mira’s neck instinctively. The suddenness of it left her dizzy, drunk off Mira’s mouth, the warmth of her hands, the grip on her waist.

But then she froze.

“Wait,” she whispered between kisses.

Mira pulled back, breath ragged. “What?”

Zoey looked past her toward the rows of plush animals on her bed and shelves. One of them—an enormous pink whale—stared back with beady black eyes.

“…Too many witnesses,” Zoey said seriously.

Mira blinked. “You’re joking.”

Zoey shook her head solemnly. “I swear that whale is judging me.”

Mira looked at the whale.

The whale looked at Mira.

“Okay. Fine.” Mira’s voice dropped again—smoky now. “My room. Fewer eyes. No whales.”

They stumbled into Mira’s room barely a minute later, door clicking shut behind them. And this time when Mira kissed her, it was rougher—more desperate. She pushed Zoey against the door, hands moving up under her hoodie, fingers skating over her ribs.

Zoey gasped and tangled her fingers in Mira’s shirt, pulling her closer until their bodies were flush, thighs pressed together. Mira kissed her like she was making up for all the weeks they hadn’t touched—tongue sliding deep into her mouth, then back, like she wanted to savor every inch.

“God, I missed you,” Zoey breathed, voice catching in her throat.

Mira groaned softly, dragging her lips down Zoey’s jaw, then her neck. “Don’t talk like that. I’ll lose it.”

“You already are,” Zoey whispered, gasping when Mira sucked a mark just under her ear. “And—fuck—you’re so hot when you do.”

Mira’s eyes darkened as she tugged Zoey closer by the waist, backing her toward the wall earning a gasp from her. “So is this how you handle your stress?” Mira gave her a small smile, “No, this is”

Mira slipped her knee between Zoey’s legs as their lips met with heat, all breath and urgency—Mira’s hands already gripping the sides of Zoey’s hips, pulling her flush. Their mouths moved in sync, slow and desperate, wet sounds echoing off the walls. Zoey let out a soft moan as her tongue slipped past Mira’s lips, deepening the kiss.

Mira groaned low in her throat, her hand slipping beneath Zoey’s hoodie, palm dragging up over her warm stomach. She pushed the fabric up, fingers spreading as she explored the skin.

Zoey grabbed Mira by the hips and spun them around, backing Mira onto the bed and straddling her. Her hoodie hit the floor seconds later.

Mira’s gaze dropped to Zoey’s chest, her eyes glittering. “You wanna top, baby?” she teased, voice sultry and slow.

Zoey didn’t answer—not with words. She leaned in and dragged her tongue up the side of Mira’s neck, drawing a shiver from her girlfriend. But before she could take control, Mira flipped them, switching their positions with a smirk.

“Not tonight, princess,” she whispered, lips brushing Zoey’s ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

Zoey moaned softly, their mouths crashing again—this time harder, needier. Mira sucked on Zoey’s tongue and cupped her chest through the fabric of her bra, thumb grazing over her nipple.

Zoey gasped into her mouth, back arching. Mira broke the kiss with a wet pop and trailed her lips down—neck, collarbone, chest—sucking and biting gently as she went. Her hand slid beneath Zoey’s bra unclasping it, finally replacing her thumb with her mouth, tugging a soft moan from Zoey’s lips.

“Fuck, Mira, please…” Zoey whimpered, grinding slightly against her thigh.

Mira pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes gleaming. “What do you want baby?”

Zoey moaned in frustration, rolling her hips.

“Do that again and I’ll leave you like this. I want you to use your words baby.”

Zoey bit her lip hard, “Please fuck me Mira.”

That was all it took. Mira slid two fingers into Zoey’s mouth, and Zoey sucked them eagerly, watching her with lust-heavy eyes. Mira removed them, trailing them down her stomach, dipping under her shorts and underwear.

She dragged her fingers slowly through Zoey’s folds, feeling the heat and wetness. “So fucking wet for me,” Mira groaned.

Zoey’s shorts hit the floor. Mira kissed her way down again, tongue circling her clit as Zoey arched under her touch.

Just outside, Rumi’s door creaked faintly.

Rumi padded softly through the dark apartment, feet bare, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. She had tried to sleep—tried to ignore the echo of her nightmare—but her heart still pounded. Her throat felt dry, her hands clammy.  Instinctively, she moved toward Mira’s room, seeking comfort, familiarity—maybe even safety.

But when she got close, she heard something that stopped her breath cold. A low moan. Then Mira’s voice—dark and commanding.

“Let me hear you.”

Rumi blinked. Her heart skipped a beat.

She inched closer—barely breathing—as another moan spilled from the room. Zoey’s voice this time, breathy and high-pitched: “Fuck yes Mira…”

She should’ve turned around. She had meant to.

But she didn’t.

Her hand lifted slowly, gently pressing against the cracked door.

Through the gap, shadows danced on the wall—bodies shifting under dim light. Zoey’s silhouette rocked above Mira’s face, hips moving in slow, desperate circles. The sounds were soaked in pleasure, raw and intimate.

And then Zoey moaned again, loud and sweet, and Rumi—

Rumi moaned at the sound.

It was soft, involuntary—but it left her lips before she could stop it.

Her thighs clenched. She felt shame rise up her spine in a hot wave—her body reacting before her mind could catch up.

Fuck.

She stepped back, hand flying over her mouth, wide eyes staring at the floor like it might swallow her. Her pulse thudded wildly in her ears. She turned and slipped down the hallway, heart stuttering in her chest, barely breathing until she was back in the shadows of her room. Her throat was dry as her breathing tried to steady. She felt a heat between her legs—rubbing her thighs together unconsciously.

Fuck what is wrong with her. She should’ve just left sooner.

Rumi let out a long breath as she tried to sleep—ignoring the thoughts that swirled around her head. But she couldn’t. Not because of what she saw. But more so how it made her feel. 

Chapter Text

The apartment smelt like toasted bread, eggs, and cinnamon.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds in long golden strips, cutting across the hardwood floor and the half-cleared living room. A k-pop playlist murmured faintly in the background, interrupted occasionally by the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of the coffee machine. Everything looked normal.

But Rumi didn’t feel normal.

She hadn’t slept much—barely at all, honestly. After bolting back into her room the night before, her body had felt like a live wire. Every time she closed her eyes, the image would return. Zoey’s moan. Mira’s voice. The curve of movement through the cracked door. And worse—her own moan. The way her thighs had squeezed together. The way shame and heat battled in her stomach.

She had laid still for hours after that, arms over her face, wishing she could erase her entire existence. Or at least her sense of hearing.

Now, she was sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in another oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, trying not to fidget with the fork on her plate. Her scrambled eggs were going cold. Her toast had only two bites missing, and her undereyes were slightly darkened from the lack of sleep.

Across the island, Zoey waltzed in with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. Not limping exactly… but definitely walking like her inner thighs had some complaints.

She plopped down on the stool beside Rumi with a groan, stretching dramatically before resting her cheek against the counter. “Ugh. Mornings should be illegal.”

Rumi nearly choked on her tea.

“You okay?” Zoey asked immediately, turning toward her with wide half-lidded eyes. She blinked and tilted her head. “You look…tired.”

“Didn’t sleep well,” Rumi muttered quickly. “Probably still recovering. Y’know, fever and all that.” She gave what she hoped was a casual smile but felt more like her face was cramping.

Zoey nodded and stood up slowly to get her breakfast. Mira appeared next—back from returning the neighbour’s mail that accidentally got delivered to their residence, hair tied up in a loose bun with a spatula in hand. She wore a cropped tee and pajama shorts, and she looked irritatingly well-rested.

Her eyes swept the room once before landing on Zoey. “Why are you walking like you just ran a marathon with like zero water breaks?”

Zoey gasped. “Mira!”

Rumi almost knocked over her tea.

“What? I’m just asking,” Mira said with faux innocence, turning back to the stove. “You usually bounce around like a cartoon character. Now you’re moving like you just lost a street fight with gravity.”

“Rude,” Zoey muttered, but her ears were pink. She reached for the butter and started slathering it messily on her toast to avoid eye contact.

Rumi focused on her plate again.

Do not make eye contact. Do not imagine anything. You’re fine. You’re normal. You did not listen to your roommates having sex last night. You are not a pervert.

“Rumi, you sure you’re okay?” Mira asked, glancing over as she plated the eggs. “You’re kind of… quiet. And twitchy.”

Rumi immediately stiffened. “I’m just cold,” she lied. “And still kind of… woozy. From being sick.”

Mira frowned, walking around to place another plate down in front of her. “You took the meds, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You want juice? More food? I made cinnamon toast,” Mira offered, clearly in full mom mode again.

Rumi shook her head. “No, I’m good. Really. Just tired.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes playfully. “You didn’t have a nightmare again, did you?”

Rumi’s blood went cold.

“No,” she said, maybe a little too fast. “No, nothing like that.”

Both girls went quiet.

Mira leaned against the counter, watching her. “Because if something happened, you can tell us.”

Rumi gave a tight, obviously fake smile. “Seriously. I’m fine. Just… recovering. I’ll nap later.”

Zoey rested her chin on her hand, still looking at her sideways. “You’re not mad at us, right?” The question made Rumi’s stomach twist. “Mad? No. Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know,” Zoey said slowly. “Just checking. Your vibe’s kinda… jumpy. Like we did something wrong.”

Rumi internally panicked. 

Make something up—NOW.

“I think I just had a weird dream,” she blurted. “One of those fever dreams that sticks with you even when you wake up.”

Mira and Zoey both nodded slowly.

“What was it about?” Mira asked casually, sipping her coffee.

Rumi stared at her eggs. “Uh I… don’t really remember. Something about whales.”

Whales? Really Rumi.

Zoey choked on her toast.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Whales?”

“Big ones,” Rumi said, her voice weirdly high-pitched now. “Pink. They were staring at me and…uh—judgy.”

Zoey was wheezing and Mira just blinked, confused.

Rumi kept going. “And I was… underwater. But also not? It was like the whales were watching me from above. Like with beady little eyes. Very invasive. I think one of them was uh—holding a clipboard.”

Now Zoey had completely collapsed into laughter, nearly sliding off her stool.

“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “Whale dream. Rumi, are you okay?!”

“I told you I was tired,” Rumi mumbled, burying her face in her toast. “I don’t know what I’m saying anymore.”

Mira chuckled softly. “Okay. Yeah, you’re clearly not 100%. Finish eating and go nap after this. You’re weird when you’re sleep-deprived.”

Rumi made a small noise of agreement, grateful the attention was shifting away.

Zoey, still giggling, leaned over and bumped shoulders with her. “If you ever need someone to defend you from terrifying whales, I got you.”

Rumi forced a laugh, but inside, her heart was still pounding. Because as much as she wanted to forget what she saw… she couldn’t. And the worst part? She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

-

As they sat around the kitchen island, Zoey snapped her fingers and gasped like she’d just discovered Atlantis. “OH. MY. GOD. EVERYBODY SHUT UP. THE NEW JURASSIC WORLD IS IN THEATERS!”

Zoey sat bolt upright, her phone raised high like it was proof of divine intervention. “Jurassic. World. Rebirth. Is. OUT.”

Rumi blinked as Mira groaned.

“No,” she muttered. “You’re not dragging us to another three-hour CGI dinosaur melodrama.”

“Excuse me?” Zoey gasped, hand flying to her chest. “You take that back. Jurassic World: Dominion was cinema. Oscar-worthy. Biblical even. Chris Pratt riding a motorcycle next to a velociraptor is the peak of film.”

“It was embarrassing,” Mira said flatly, adjusting her glasses.

“Blasphemy!” Zoey shouted standing now, pointing a shaking finger toward the ceiling like she was appealing to a higher power. “I am going. I am going today! This is not a drill. Scarlett Johansson is in this one. I don’t know what her role is to be honest, I just know she’s wearing a tank top and has muscles so I need to see this.”

“You had me at ‘Scarlett Johansson,’” Rumi muttered under her breath, sipping her tea.

Mira turned toward her. “You too?”

“Uh I didn’t say anything,” Rumi said too fast.

But Zoey whipped around, laser-focused. “Wait. Wait wait wait—Rumi. Do not lie to me right now. Are you saying… Scarjo does it for you?”

Rumi froze.

Mira raised a brow, clearly amused now. “This feels like a trap.”

“No no, I just… I mean…” Rumi shifted under the weight of both their stares. “I guess… she was kind of my gay awakening?”

Zoey screamed. She literally screamed—a high-pitched, victorious screech and launched herself across the island, grabbing Rumi’s shoulders and shaking her. “I KNEW IT. I KNEW YOU WERE THE ONE. WE ARE SISTERS IN TASTE.”

Rumi laughed despite herself, face turning a bright shade of pink. Mira leaned back, setting her coffee aside. “Wow. Of all the things to bond over, this is what does it?”

“She’s hot!” Zoey defended. “Like… not in a ‘ooh pretty actress’ way. I mean she ruined entire sexualities. She made everyone question themselves.”

Rumi nodded solemnly. “It was the leather catsuit for me.”

“Same,” Zoey whispered reverently. “Black Widow in Iron Man 2. When she flips that guy and stares down the camera. My soul left my body.”

“I was like eight,” Rumi muttered, half-hiding behind her mug. “And I just remember feeling…weird. And then watching it again at twelve and being like, ‘Oh. Oh no.’”

“I watched it twenty times in one week,” Zoey grinned.

“I drew her in my sketchbook,” Rumi admitted shyly. “With hearts around her.”

Zoey shrieked again and tackled her into a side hug, squeezing her tightly. Mira watched this entire exchange with her chin in her hand. “So this is what I’ve signed up for. Great.”

“Baby,” Zoey said, looking at her like she was a lost cause. “You cannot tell me you’re not into Scarlett Johansson.”

“I mean, I’m not blind,” Mira said dryly. “But I also like people with functioning personalities.”

Zoey gasped. “She is deep! She’s just misunderstood! She has layers!”

“She had the same thing going in every Marvel movie with no personality,” Mira argued. “Hot. Sad. Punches things.”

“Blame Marvel for being fucking misogynistic, and hey! That’s literally me!” Zoey cried.

Rumi burst out laughing, face flushed and happy in a way she hadn’t expected.

“Okay but seriously,” Zoey said, hopping back to her phone. “We have to go see it today. There’s a 6:45pm showing at the one with the reclining seats. Rumi, say yes. Mira, say nothing if you’re gonna come anyway because you just love your girlfriend that much.”

Mira gave her a dry look.

“I’ll go,” Rumi said quietly, surprising even herself.

Zoey’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas.

“You will?”

Rumi nodded. “I haven’t seen a movie in a while. And… I don’t know. It could be fun.”

Zoey did a victory lap around the living room, spinning in a circle and making dramatic dinosaur screeches before wincing in pain because of her sore legs.

“Is she okay?” Rumi whispered to Mira.

“She hasn’t been since Jurassic World: Fallen Kingdom,” Mira replied.

“I heard that!” Zoey called from the kitchen. “And I stand by my right to love dinosaurs and disaster bi women with lab coats!”

Mira sighed, but she was already pulling her phone out. “Fine. I’ll book the tickets.”

Zoey limp-ran back in like an excited puppy and threw herself between them, practically vibrating. “You guys don’t understand. I’ve been waiting for this movie for two years. It’s got volcanoes. It’s got raptors. It’s got morally ambiguous hot women in tank tops. I might black out.”

“You might get banned from the theater again,” Mira said.

“That was one time.”

“You cried when they killed the stegosaurus,” Mira reminded.

“That was a deeply emotional scene,” Zoey snapped.

Rumi grinned, watching the two of them bicker fondly.

“And no screaming,” Mira warned. “Or emoting. Or barking at the screen.”

“No promises,” Zoey beamed.

-

The rest of the day passed by relatively quickly. Rumi mostly kept to herself and limited her interactions with the couple as much as possible hoping they wouldn’t notice. And now, she was standing in front of her closet dumbfounded.

Her fingers hovered over hangers, brushing across oversized sweaters, plain tees, her one going-out skirt, and the cropped hoodie she bought on impulse last year and had never worn in public. Nothing felt right. Everything either screamed too dressed up or you’re trying too hard, and after what she saw last night, her brain was more scrambled than her closet.

Every time she blinked, the image came back.

Zoey—moaning, flushed, riding Mira’s face like there was no tomorrow. The noises. The heat. The way Rumi’s own thighs clenched before her brain could scream GET OUT. The fact that she… moaned. Out loud. And now she was supposed to just go to the movies with them like that didn’t happen?

God.

“Rumi! Do you wanna match dino colours or a sexy dino hunter aesthetic?” Zoey’s voice called from the other room, followed by the sound of a drawer slamming and a muffled “ow” like she’d stubbed her toe.

Rumi blinked. “Uh—what?”

Footsteps padded down the hallway, then Zoey popped her head into the room.

Army green cargo pants, a tight cropped tank that clung to her chest in a way Rumi was definitely not noticing, and her hair was let down—her micro bangs framing her face.

“Oh,” Rumi said before she could stop herself.

Zoey grinned. “Right? I call this look: ‘I’m hot, emotionally unavailable, and know how to load a tranquilizer rifle.’”

Rumi snorted, eyes darting back to her own reflection in the mirror. “Yeah well. I call this look: ‘confused college student who might cry in the theater bathroom.’”

Zoey laughed and walked into the room, flopping backward onto Rumi’s bed like she lived there—which, honestly, she kind of did…or will do. “C’mon, you’re gorgeous. Put on that white long-sleeve that's next to the green one. It made your boobs look stupidly good last week.”

Rumi turned red. “Zoey!”

“What? I’m just saying facts. Mira agrees.”

Rumi spun around, arms crossed self consciously. “She does?”

Zoey blinked at her. “Well, yeah. I mean, she didn’t say it like that, but she did stare for a suspicious amount of time when you bent over to get cereal.”

Rumi’s entire soul left her body. Zoey paused, tilting her head. “You okay?”

“I’m fine!” Rumi squeaked. “Just—uh. Just thinking. About. Whales.”

Zoey squinted at her. “You’re being weird again.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re doing that voice you do when you lie.”

“I don’t have a voice when I lie.”

“See? That is the voice!”

Rumi grabbed the long-sleeve from the closet and threw it at Zoey. “Get out so I can change.”

Zoey raised both hands, still smiling as she backed out. “Okay okay! But if you come out looking sexy, I am going to whistle.”

“You better not—”

Whooo woo

“ZO—!”

It was too late. She was already halfway down the hall giggling to herself. Rumi laughed softly and rolled her eyes as she began undressing.

-

Zoey sat criss-crossed on Mira’s bed, waiting for her to get ready as she smeared blush across her cheekbones with two fingers—her tongue poking out in concentration like the makeup required vectors.

Mira stood by the dresser in her black sports bra and sweatpants, dragging a comb through her long, pink hair.

“She’s acting weird,” Zoey said suddenly, eyes flicking toward the door as if Rumi’s awkward aura still lingered through it.

Mira blinked. “Who?”

“Rumi.”

Mira didn’t respond right away. She switched arms with the comb, brushing slower now. Zoey tapped her cheekbone once more, then dropped her hands and sighed. “You didn’t notice? She’s been avoiding eye contact like I’m medusa or something.”

“She always avoids eye contact,” Mira said evenly, though her brows pinched slightly. “Especially when she’s flustered.”

Zoey swung her legs dramatically off the bed. “Exactly. That girl was acting like I gave her a lap dance during breakfast.”

Mira snorted.

“I’m serious!” Zoey said. “You saw how she nearly choked on her toast when I mentioned the Jurassic World movie. And when I asked her if she wanted to come? She nodded like I proposed marriage.”

“She was probably just surprised.”

“She turned red, Mira.”

“Maybe she’s still a little sick.”

Zoey threw her hands up. “So now the fever makes her gay?”

Mira finally turned from the dresser, arms crossed, comb dangling from one hand. “…You think she’s seriously gay?”

Zoey blinked. “You don’t?”

Mira’s jaw flexed. “I’ve… wondered. I thought maybe she was bi.”

“She is,” Zoey said immediately, getting off the bed and moving to the mirror. “She said Scarlett Johansson was her gay awakening.”

Mira blinked. “Yeah but…”

“But nothing! Because right after she called the trailer visually thrilling and immediately avoided eye contact. Again.”

Mira’s lips twitched faintly. “I mean… same. She is visually thrilling.”

Zoey smirked. “You had a Scarlett phase?”

“Everyone did. I had a poster.”

Zoey gasped. “You had a crush poster?!”

“I was fourteen. It was above my desk.”

“Please tell me it was that Avengers one where she’s on the motorcycle.”

Mira gave her a look. “Of course it was.”

Zoey squealed, clapping once. “Oh my God. I would’ve bullied fourteen-year-old you just to make you give it up.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but her cheeks tinted the faintest pink. Zoey was still grinning when she stepped closer. “Okay but seriously—Rumi. She’s not just ‘still sick.’ Something else is up.”

They stood in silence for a moment—Zoey adjusting her earring, Mira tying up her half-done hair with a loose black scrunchie.

Then, more softly, Zoey said, “You think we’re… part of why she’s acting weird?”

Mira met her eyes in the mirror. “I think she’s overwhelmed. There’s been a lot—Celine, the grave, the fever, the apology. And maybe now she’s realizing she’s attracted to girls more than she thought on top of it.”

“And those girls might be us.”

Mira didn’t say anything. She just looked down, tightening the knot on her sweatpants. Her expression was complicated—half composed, half aching.

A quiet knock on the door made them both jump. Rumi’s voice called through softly, muffled by the wood. “I’ll be in the living room when you guys are ready.” Zoey and Mira exchanged a glance.

When the voice came to a cease, Zoey turned to Mira with a raised brow.  “We should tell her she’s pretty today.”

Mira smirked. “You’re gonna just flirt so hard she faints, aren’t you.”

“I’m gonna flirt so hard you faint.”

“Rumi’s gonna combust.”

“We’re gonna combust,” Zoey corrected, already grabbing her lip gloss.

Mira just sighed and pulled on a fitted shirt. “Come on. Let’s go pretend we don’t know what’s happening.”

Zoey grabbed Mira’s hand and twirled her dramatically in the center of the room. “Operation: ‘Woo Rumi With A Soft Gay Movie Date’ is a go.”

Mira groaned. “You need to stop naming things.”

Zoey beamed. “Never.”

Rumi was sitting cross-legged on the couch when they emerged—her phone in one hand, thumb hovering over her screen, unread notifications blinking at the top like warnings that she hadn’t decided to open yet. She looked up as soon as she heard them, lips parting slightly. And Mira stopped walking. Zoey walked straight into Mira’s back. “Dude—oh.” Her voice dropped out of her mouth entirely.

Rumi blinked at them innocently.

She was wearing a soft white cropped long sleeve top that hugged her gently around the ribs and cut just short enough to reveal a thin sliver of skin above her hips. The hem rose higher when she adjusted herself—just a peek of smooth stomach and the tiny dip of her waist. Her mid-rise jean shorts were frayed slightly at the edge, sitting snug and effortless on her hips, showing off the delicate curve of her legs.

Her signature purple braid had a few new silver and pink charms woven into it—tiny shapes that caught the light when she turned. And her makeup, though light, was gorgeous—a soft shimmer on her eyelids, a touch of gloss on her lips, and a hint of blush that made her look like she just stepped out of a music video and onto their grey couch.

Zoey audibly inhaled. Mira didn’t move.

Rumi blinked again. “What?”

Zoey was the first to recover. Barely.

“Sorry, what?” she asked, dazed. “Did you say something? Or did I just go deaf from sheer beauty?”

Rumi’s face turned pink. “I—no, I was just asking if we were ready to go…”

“Oh, we are,” Zoey said, very seriously. “We are so ready. So painfully, emotionally, and spiritually ready.”

Mira coughed and Zoey turned, slightly nudging her. Mira hadn’t blinked in about thirty seconds.

“You good?” Zoey whispered, elbowing her gently.

“I’m fine,” Mira said, voice much lower than intended.

“You sure?” Zoey teased, eyes glinting. “You look like you just saw God.”

Mira finally tore her eyes away and blinked hard. “I’m fine.”

Rumi turned back to them. “Did I miss something?”

“Nope,” they both said in eerie unison.

“…Okay,” Rumi said slowly, grabbing a small bobby pin from the shelf and twisting a piece of her hair back. A charm caught in the light—a little silver heart threaded between her braided strands.

Zoey inhaled sharply again, whispering, “Who gave her permission to accessorize?”

Mira didn’t respond. She was too busy watching Rumi’s fingers delicately fasten the pin. Everything felt like slow motion. The way her lashes fluttered as she blinked. The way her bottom lip caught gently under her teeth when she adjusted her top again.

Get a grip, Mira scolded herself.

Rumi pulled on her boots and reached for the denim jacket slung on the back of the couch. The shorts hugged her hips like they were tailored for heartbreak. “Ready when you guys are,” she said with a smile, soft and unassuming, as if she hadn’t just casually ruined both of them for the rest of the day.

Mira swallowed. “I’m driving.”

Zoey nodded solemnly. “Thank god. I’d crash looking in the rearview mirror every five seconds.”

-

The lobby of the theater was buzzing, filled with the smell of popcorn, melted butter, and sticky soda syrup. Bright movie posters flickered across the walls in dramatic fonts: Jurassic World: Rebirth front and center—Scarlett Johansson in all muscle mommy, dinosaur-wrangling glory.

Zoey practically bounced in place as they approached the concession stand, Mira walking just behind her with her hands in her pockets, and Rumi tucked between them, clutching her arm like it was her lifeline.

“We are getting everything,” Zoey announced. “Popcorn. Twizzlers. The sour things that make your jaw clench. You know the works.”

“Jesus,” Mira muttered, eyeing the display. “You gonna finance your dentist appointment after or are we selling a kidney?”

“Mine’s already up on eBay,” Zoey quipped. “Final bid’s at ₩400,000 and a Funko Pop of Wanda.”

Rumi laughed softly. “You should’ve held out for two kidneys’ worth.”

Mira stepped forward to scan the warm case of nachos, hot dogs, and other questionable theater foods. “I’m getting the hot Cheetos nachos.”

Zoey blinked. “Mira.”

“What?”

“You’re going to die in that seat.”

“I like them,” Mira said defensively, already pulling her card from her wallet.

“That’s not the point,” Zoey whispered. “You have—”

“You have IBS,” Rumi said casually, eyes still on the menu.

Silence.

Mira turned her head slowly, like a horror movie protagonist hearing a creak upstairs. “…I have what?”

Rumi blinked at her. “IBS? Like your stomach—when you eat spicy things—”

“How do you know that?” Mira asked, her voice caught somewhere between concern and betrayal. “I’ve literally never said that to you.”

Rumi’s lips parted, then she realized. “Oh.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Zoey, who had been hovering next to the display of gummy worms, suddenly went still—like prey in a field. Her hand froze in mid-air just as she was about to grab a pack of Nerds Clusters.

Rumi looked over at her. Then back at Mira. Then back at Zoey.

“…You showed her the rap, didn’t you?” Mira said, flat and low.

Zoey turned slowly with a sheepish grin. “Define ‘show.’”

“Zoey.” Mira pinched the bridge of her nose.

“It was so good!” Zoey whined, stepping forward like she was trying to plead with a storm. “She was sad and sick and—you weren’t there and I thought it would cheer her up!”

Mira blinked, stunned. “You. Showed Rumi, the IBS rap?”

“It was a moment of weakness,” Zoey whispered.

Rumi, trying her absolute hardest not to laugh, cleared her throat. “For the record… it did cheer me up.”

Mira groaned and covered her face with one hand. “I cannot believe this is happening at the popcorn counter.”

“Too late,” Zoey said, fully giggling now. “You’re part of the IBS cinematic universe.”

“I hate it here.”

Rumi nudged her gently, still smiling despite her own mortification. “Come on, it’s not that embarrassing. It’s just your digestive system.”

Mira groaned louder. “That’s worse! Don’t say it like that—‘just your digestive system’? That sounds like we’re reading medical charts on a first date.”

Zoey snorted. “I mean, technically it is a first date—kinda. We’re all here, there’s attraction, and Mira’s already exposing her gastrointestinal vulnerabilities. It’s romantic.”

Mira shot her a look. “I will throw these nachos at you.”

Zoey only smiled at continued picking out snacks.

-

The lights inside the theater dimmed slightly as the previews echoed faintly from the other screens nearby. It was bustling—families, couples, teens in groups, the rush of soda machines, and the scent of butter so artificial it almost sparkled.

Zoey was marching proudly toward their theater like a woman on a mission. Or like someone in a training montage. Her arms were full—absurdly so.

A jumbo popcorn balanced precariously in the crook of her elbow. Two slushies in her left hand. A pack of candy bags in her right. And hanging off her wrist was the cursed tray of nacho inferno Mira had insisted on getting.

“I got it!” Zoey said with zero believability. “Don’t help me! I am capable!”

“You look like a human vending machine,” Mira deadpanned.

“I’ve trained for this my whole life.”

“You’re going to spill something.”

“NEVER.”

Just as she said that, one of the nacho trays wobbled. Mira reached out instinctively.

“Let me—” she started, grabbing for the slushie Zoey was struggling with.

But Zoey twisted to adjust her balance and—

SPLASH.

A high-pitched yelp tore through the air.

And there stood Rumi. Frozen.

A long stream of bright pink slushie dripped down her chest, soaking straight through her fitted white long sleeve. The cold liquid seeped into the soft fabric like a time-lapse, turning the fabric translucent within seconds.

And just beneath the sheer outline of the wet shirt—was her white lace bra.

Also see-through.

The air around them halted. Zoey’s jaw dropped. Mira’s brain short-circuited.

“Ohmygodohmygod—Rumi-I.. I didn’t mean to—” Zoey was already fumbling, trying to hand Mira everything at once while reaching for a stack of napkins. “I’ll fix it…I swear—hold still—oh my god.”

Rumi blinked slowly, face already turning crimson. She tried to tug her shirt away from her skin, but it just stuck more. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine I swear. I just need- shit I forgot my jacket in the car.”

“You’re not fine,” Mira said, suddenly sharp, stepping between her and the rapidly forming line of onlookers. “We’re going to the car to get it. Come on.”

“I’ll stay back on the watch food.” Zoey said softly as she fought against the urge to look at Rumi. 

-

The air outside hit different—cooler, quieter, far away from the hum of the theater lobby. The lot was mostly empty now, golden streetlamps flickering overhead, and the distant glow of neon signage painting the asphalt in pinks and blues.

Mira clicked the key button, and the car lights blinked in response. She opened the passenger side door and gestured for Rumi to sit. “I’m so sorry,” Mira muttered, grabbing a pack of wipes from the glove compartment. “I should’ve taken the drink first. I didn’t think she’d—ugh—jerk like that.”

Rumi shook her head, still dazed. “It’s not your fault. Really. She had too much holding. I honestly should’ve seen it coming.”

“I mean, you did.” Mira’s lips twitched as she handed her the wipes. “You literally saw it coming. Just didn’t have time to dodge.”

Rumi let out a soft, breathy laugh. She peeled the damp shirt away from her chest and glanced down—and immediately pulled her arms across herself, flustered. “Jesus. It’s see-through.”

Mira turned around. “I’m not looking.”

“Yeah this jacket isn’t doing shit and it’s so uncomfortable to wear bare,” Rumi muttered, clearly panicking now.

“Zoey left a hoodie back here yesterday,” Mira offered, already leaning into the backseat. She pulled out a soft, oversized black zip-up and passed it forward.

“Thank you,” Rumi whispered, fumbling out of her wet top and slipping into the hoodie, the fabric swallowing her whole.

Mira, still facing away cleared her throat. “Okay. You’re good?”

“Yeah,” Rumi murmured. “You can look now.”

Mira turned. And nearly stopped breathing. Because even in just the hoodie, hair mussed from pulling the top off, braid slightly undone, eyes wide and flustered—Rumi was beautiful. 

“You okay?” Mira asked, voice softer now—trying to compose herself.

Rumi nodded slowly. “Just cold.”

They sat in the car with the door open, a soft breeze rustling the charm in Rumi’s braid. Mira turned toward her, fingers still holding a wipe she hadn’t realized she crumpled. And then the silence thickened. The kind of quiet that came with heat. The kind that pressed behind ribs and curled up along the spine.

Rumi looked up at her. Their eyes met. And Mira swore she felt gravity bend a little.

She didn’t know who leaned in first—maybe neither of them. Maybe it was just the air doing the work for them. But one second, she was looking at Rumi’s eyes. The next, at her mouth.

Rumi’s lips parted just slightly, her breath hitching. Mira’s hand was on the seat between them, and Rumi’s fingers brushed against it.

Their noses nearly touched. Just an inch. One breath.

Then a loud BANG echoed behind them—someone slamming a car door across the lot. They both flinched. Rumi sat back like she’d been slapped. Mira blinked hard and looked away, face suddenly unreadable.

“I—um,” Rumi stammered, fingers pulling at the sleeves of the hoodie.

“We should go get Zoey,” Mira said abruptly, already shifting in her seat. “Before she tries to juggle a second round of slushies.”

Rumi nodded, voice small. “Right. Yeah.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

The theater hallway was dim and cool, a trail of sticky footprints lining the polished floor. Mira walked just a few steps ahead, holding the door open for her like nothing had happened. Like their faces hadn’t been inches apart five minutes ago. Like Rumi hadn’t nearly closed that distance.

She tugged the sleeves of Zoey’s hoodie down over her hands again, the fabric smelling faintly like lavender detergent and strawberry body spray. 

Her heart still hadn’t settled.

They slid quietly into their seats, Zoey already halfway through the popcorn and whisper-arguing with a ten-year-old over gummy worms.

“Hey!” she whispered, grinning. “I saved your nachos. They only melted a little. I definitely didn’t panic-eat three of them. Welcome back!”

Rumi nodded, giving a tight smile, then curled into the seat beside her.

Mira didn’t say anything. Just passed her a napkin and took the seat on her other side, eyes focused straight ahead. Rumi stared at the screen, but the movie hadn’t started yet.

And her thoughts were louder than the pre-show ads.

What were you doing? You were going to kiss her. You were—No. She was going to kiss you. Maybe. Probably.

She exhaled slowly and sunk deeper into the hoodie. Zoey shoved a handful of popcorn into her hand without looking.

 Like she hadn’t nearly kissed Zoey’s girlfriend ten minutes ago in the backseat of a car.

Rumi’s stomach twisted violently. She stared at the popcorn for half a second too long before taking it—more out of reflex than desire.

It was just popcorn.

Just Zoey.

But her throat felt tight and too dry. Because Zoey had waited. And she’d saved the snacks. And she’d thought about her.

And Rumi—

Rumi had almost kissed someone else.

Her girlfriend.

And the worst part?

She still wanted to.

“Thanks,” she said softly, voice barely audible over the dull hum of previews. Zoey bumped her knee under the armrest. “Don’t thank me. Thank future me, who will definitely regret not saving more sour worms for herself.”

Rumi tried to smile. She really did.

But guilt sat heavy in her chest like concrete, pressing down on her lungs, her ribs, her heart. She didn’t deserve either of them.

Not Zoey’s sweetness.

Not Mira’s quiet intensity.

Not this seat between them, soaking in their warmth like she belonged here. She took a single piece of popcorn and held it in her palm, unmoving. The screen flickered. The lights dimmed further. The Jurassic World logo roared to life with dramatic music and swirling CGI.

But all Rumi could hear was the sound her heartbeat—tears threatening to form as she tried to focus on the large screen.

Could this night get any worse?

Chapter Text

The credits were rolling.

The screen dimmed with muted orchestral swells, casting flickering light over their row. Jurassic World: Rebirth had ended in a predictable blaze of glory—dinosaurs rescued, disaster averted, muscles flexed in slow motion. But none of it lingered in Rumi’s mind. She hadn’t processed a single frame.

Not the explosions. Not Scarlett Johansson’s absurdly defined triceps. Not the final monologue about harmony between humans and prehistoric beasts. Just the popcorn in her lap she never touched. The way her thigh had accidentally brushed Mira’s midway through. The faint smell of Zoey’s shampoo when she leaned over to whisper a joke. The soft, warm weight of Zoey’s hoodie still hugging her frame, zipped all the way up with nothing underneath. She was too aware of everything.

Especially herself.

As the house lights came up and the chatter of the crowd swelled around them, Mira stood abruptly.

“Bathroom,” she muttered, a little too fast.

“Jesus, it’s hitting already?” Zoey blinked.

“Maybe the nachos were a mistake,” Mira said through clenched teeth, already stepping over legs to the aisle.

Zoey followed, stretching. “I gotta pee so bad. Slushie tsunami.”

They both looked at Rumi.

She blinked, then nodded, hugging the hoodie tighter around herself. “I’ll come. Just to freshen up.”

They made their way out with the crowd. Rumi kept a few steps behind, letting the buzz of voices cover the static in her own head. Her thoughts were a mess of guilt, heat, confusion—and under it all, a gnawing fear that she’d already ruined something she hadn’t even had yet.

The bathroom was colder than expected, the tile floor slick and echoey under dim fluorescent lighting. Mira immediately darted into the nearest stall with a barely-muttered “goodbye world.” Zoey laughed and peeled off to the other end, disappearing behind a door.

Rumi stood at the long counter of sinks and mirrors alone now. She didn’t reach for the paper towels. She didn’t fix her hair. She just stared at her reflection, water running faintly in the background from a sink someone had forgotten to turn off. Her fingers trembled as she turned on the faucet as cool water splashed into her palms. She leaned down and let it run over her face—first once, then again. She squeezed her eyes shut, the droplets dripping from her chin, her braid brushed against her cheek, damp now.

She exhaled hard.

You almost kissed Mira.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, slowly opening her eyes to meet herself in the mirror.

What the hell is wrong with you?

The bathroom door opened behind her with a soft creak.

Footsteps. Heels clicked and clacked against the floor. Confident and casual.

Rumi didn’t look. Not at first.

She thought maybe it was just another woman from the theater. But then the voice came.

“Well, well.”

And Rumi’s blood ran cold.

She turned around slowly.

Maya stood near the entrance, phone in one hand, lip gloss in the other, like she’d just walked in from a memory Rumi never wanted to revisit. Her curls were longer now—dyed a softer auburn. Her style hadn’t changed much—tight tank top, ripped jeans, a denim jacket half-zipped with a designer logo across the back.

But her eyes?

Still cold.

Still sharp.

Maya blinked at her, lips curling just slightly. “I thought that was you.”

Rumi couldn’t breathe for a second. Her heart skidded, stomach flipping inside out. “Maya.”

Maya stepped forward, slow and casual, as if they were just two old friends running into each other at a café. “Wow. It’s been, what, four years?”

Rumi swallowed hard. “Yeah. About that.”

She tried to turn back toward the mirror, but Maya leaned against the counter beside her, uncapping her gloss like it was a ritual.

“You look… different,” she said. “In a good way. You glowed up and your hair’s… the same—but cute.”

“Thanks,” Rumi said softly, uncertain.

Maya applied the gloss slowly. “You’re still in the city?”

“I go to school here.”

“Oh.” Maya nodded. “I just thought maybe… you would’ve gone somewhere more… lowkey.”

Rumi flinched.

Maya smiled faintly at the mirror. “Not in a bad way. Just… you were always a little dramatic.”

Rumi’s throat clenched.

“I mean,” Maya went on, glancing sideways, “remember how sensitive you used to get? Over everything?”

Rumi stared at her own reflection, willing herself not to react.

“I still think about it sometimes,” Maya said, like she was reminiscing about an old school play. “That day in the locker room. It was a lot.”

Rumi’s hands curled against the counter.

Maya’s voice dropped, quieter. “I didn’t mean to scare you, you know. I just… I didn’t know how to react.”

Rumi’s jaw locked. “You called me disgusting.”

Maya went still.

Then, with a small laugh, she said, “I was shocked. I mean, wouldn’t you be? You never told me anything. It was just—boom. Right there. Of course I freaked out.”

Rumi blinked fast. “I was trying to protect myself.”

“Well,” Maya said, slipping her phone into her back pocket, “maybe if you’d just trusted me, we wouldn’t be strangers now.”

Rumi turned fully now. Her voice shook, but her eyes were steady. “You didn’t leave because I didn’t trust you. You left because you were disgusted. Because I made you uncomfortable. Because you saw something you didn’t want to deal with.”

Maya’s eyes narrowed, just slightly.

“I was a kid, Rumi.”

“So was I,” Rumi snapped. 

The air thickened. Maya’s tongue clicked softly against the roof of her mouth.

And then, before either of them could say anything—her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it and her face shifted.

“Shit,” she muttered. “My boyfriend’s waiting outside.”

Boyfriend?

The word hit harder than expected. Not because Rumi had expected Maya to be alone. But because, once upon a time, she had loved her. Not just as a friend.

But as something more.

Maya had been the first girl who made Rumi feel seen. Admired. Worth orbiting. They’d shared sleepovers and secrets and tangled hands under blankets. And Rumi had let herself believe—just a little—that maybe Maya had felt the same.

But that fantasy had died in the locker room. And now, years later, Maya still didn’t know what she’d done. Or worse, she probably didn’t care. Maya tossed her lip gloss back into her purse, gaze flicking over Rumi one last time. “You seem better though. More put together.”

Rumi said nothing.

“Anyway.” Maya stepped back toward the door. “Nice seeing you.”

And just as she turned, the door to the nearest stall clicked open.

Zoey stepped out, silent.

Her eyes locked onto Maya immediately.

Rumi turned, startled. “Zoey—”

Zoey didn’t look at her. She walked to the sink slowly, washed her hands with deliberate calm. Then turned off the faucet, reached for a paper towel, and dried her fingers without saying a word.

Maya blinked at her. “Uh… hi?”

Zoey smiled.

But not her usual friendly smile. A very specific kind of smile. The kind a cat gives right before knocking your glass off the table.

“Hi,” Zoey said sweetly. “Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhearing a bit of that.”

Maya shifted.

Zoey leaned slightly against the counter, her voice gentle but sharp. “Do you always talk to people like that? Or just the ones you traumatized and never apologized to?”

Maya flushed. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Zoey chirped. “In fact, you can go.”

Rumi’s eyes widened.

Maya laughed, like it was ridiculous. “Who even are you?”

“I’m Zoey,” she said, stepping slightly between them. “I’m Rumi’s roommate—one of her best friends. And someone who doesn’t appreciate you trying to rewrite history like you didn’t completely wreck her when she needed you most.”

Maya opened her mouth but no words came out. And Zoey tilted her head. “You said you were a kid back then? Cool. You’re an adult now. So act like one. Or leave.”

The silence that followed felt like a held breath.

Maya’s face shifted—part guilt, part discomfort, part resentment. “You don’t know what it was like.”

“No,” Zoey said calmly. “But I know what it is now. And you’re making it worse.”

Maya held Rumi’s gaze one last time.

But Rumi didn’t flinch. She didn’t look away. She just let her eyes go cold.

And Maya left.

The door swung shut behind her with a quiet click.

Zoey let out a slow breath and turned to Rumi. “Hey.”

Rumi stood frozen, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, her other still damp with water. Her breath was shallow, like her lungs couldn’t decide if they were allowed to work yet. Her reflection looked strange—blurry at the edges, eyes wide and red-rimmed, lips parted like she’d forgotten how to close them. Zoey stood to the side, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She was still staring at the door, jaw clenched like she could vaporize it with just sheer will.

Rumi blinked. Once. Twice.

And then she turned to Zoey, voice barely audible.

“…Why did you do that?”

Zoey looked over at her, confused. “What?”

“You didn’t have to—step in.”

“Yes, I did,” Zoey said immediately, as if the idea of not intervening was laughable. “You looked like you were about to pass out and she was acting like a human papercut.”

Rumi shook her head. “I was fine.”

“No, you weren’t,” Zoey said softly, stepping closer. “You were barely breathing.”

That made something crack just slightly behind Rumi’s ribs. Zoey paused, eyes scanning her face. “Hey… are you okay?”

The tears came before Rumi could stop them. She exhaled shakily, eyes darting to the door like Maya might walk back in. “That was… the first time I’ve seen her in years.”

Zoey’s expression shifted, softening like wet clay. “That was… her? The girl from—”

Rumi nodded. “The locker room. The one I told you about.”

“Shit.”

Zoey didn’t ask anything else. She just took another step forward, slow and careful, like she was approaching a spooked animal. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Rumi didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then—barely above a whisper—“She was the first girl I ever liked.”

Zoey’s heart twisted.

“She never knew. I didn’t even understand it then. I just…” Rumi sniffled and looked away. “I just knew she made me feel safe. Until she didn’t.”

Zoey gently touched her arm. “You don’t have to explain it.”

“I feel sick,” Rumi whispered.

“C’mere,” Zoey murmured, and before Rumi could protest, she pulled her into a slow, careful hug. Rumi resisted for half a second then melted into her touch. She buried her face in Zoey’s shoulder, letting the warmth anchor her, the tears soaking quietly into Zoey’s hoodie. Zoey just rubbed her back in small, gentle circles, keeping them both steady.

She didn’t say anything like “you’re strong” or “she doesn’t matter.” She just held her. Like Rumi mattered. Like it was okay to fall apart a little.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, and then another door creaked open behind them. “Oh thank God,” Mira’s voice muttered from the far stall. “I thought the hot sauce won.”

Zoey winced. “Hey, baby?”

“…Yeah?”

“Bathroom emergency over?”

Mira emerged, drying her hands on a paper towel. “Barely.”

And then she looked up. Saw Rumi in Zoey’s arms. Saw her shaking. Then saw Zoey’s face.

“What happened?”

Rumi pulled back quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Nothing. I’m fine. It’s—it’s nothing.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed. “Rumi…”

“It was Maya,” Zoey said gently. “She walked in. Said some hot diarrhetic bullshit.”

Mira went still.

“Maya?” Her voice dropped.

“Yeah,” Rumi said quietly. “That Maya.”

Mira’s hands curled slightly at her sides.

Zoey caught the shift in her posture instantly. “Hey,” she said, holding out a hand like a stop sign. “Don’t go full protective lioness, okay? I already told her off.”

“You what?” Mira blinked.

Zoey shrugged. “I did. Not in a ‘drag her’ way. Just a ‘back off before I actually throw hands in a public restroom’ way.”

Mira blinked again, like she was recalibrating. Then turned to Rumi. “Are you okay?”

Rumi nodded quickly. “Yeah. Really. I just needed a second. I’m good now.”

Mira didn’t look convinced. Her eyes scanned Rumi’s face with clinical precision, as if memorizing every crack in her expression. Then she stepped forward and—without a word—brushed a few damp strands of hair away from her cheek.

“Good,” she said. “But if she shows her face again, she’s not getting a warning.”

Zoey whispered, “That’s hot.”

Rumi almost laughed. Almost.

But the tears were still there. Her hands still felt too cold. Her ribs still hurt from holding her breath. Mira looked between them. “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”

Rumi nodded again. They left the bathroom together—Rumi sandwiched between both girls. Mira subtly kept to her left, shielding her from view. Zoey stayed on the right, walking just a little too close like a bodyguard with glitter in her veins.

As they stepped back into the cooler theater air, Rumi exhaled for real.

The weight of the past still clung to her shoulders—but it didn’t feel unbearable.

Not with them on either side.

-

The night air had cooled since they’d arrived, a light breeze brushing against Rumi’s flushed cheeks. Streetlights painted the sidewalk in patches of amber and soft white, illuminating the subtle tremble in her hands as she walked in silence.

Zoey was a few steps ahead, animatedly ranting about how the third act of the movie completely disregarded paleontology, using her whole body to emphasize each point. Mira walked quietly beside her, one hand tucked into her pocket, the other holding the crumpled movie ticket.

But Rumi trailed behind.

The laughter from the other two barely touched her ears now. Instead, her mind replayed the way Mira’s breath had ghosted against her mouth earlier in the car. The almost-kiss. The way Mira’s hand had hovered—just barely not touching her. The way Rumi’s heart had betrayed her, wanting to lean in.

And then the theater bathroom.

The way Maya had looked at her. Like she was still broken. Like she’d never changed.

Rumi blinked, eyes burning again. She couldn’t tell what hurt more—the memory of Maya backing away from her four years ago or the gut-punch of seeing her today, smug and untouched, like none of it had mattered. Like Rumi’s pain had been a minor inconvenience in Maya’s perfectly colour-coded life.

She slowed her steps, falling further behind. The warmth of Zoey’s hoodie wrapped around her like armor, but it didn’t protect her from the ache inside. Her body still remembered the nearness of Mira’s lips. Her gut still twisted with guilt when she looked at Zoey’s carefree smile.

She didn’t deserve to be here. Not between them. Not like this.

“Hey.” Mira’s voice pulled her out of the spiral. She had stopped walking, glancing back at her. “You good?”

Rumi forced a nod, quickening her pace. “Yeah. Sorry. Just tired.”

Mira frowned slightly, but didn’t press. She waited until Rumi caught up, then quietly walked beside her again—close, but not too close.

Zoey paused at the car, unlocking it with a beep and tossing her slushie cup into the trash bin nearby. “That was seriously the most intense final battle scene in any Jurassic movie ever. I mean—did you see Scarlett Johansson flip that raptor? Lesbian rights!”

Mira snorted softly as she climbed into the driver’s seat.Rumi sat in the back. And for the first time since they’d arrived at the theater, she didn’t feel like she belonged in this trio.

Not when she was hiding so much.

Not when the memory of Maya’s disgust still echoed in her bones.

Not when the almost-kiss burned against her skin.

She stared out the window as Mira pulled out of the lot, fingers clenching the sleeves of Zoey’s hoodie. A thought crept in like a whisper:

Maybe Maya was right to leave.

-

By the time they got back, the mood had shifted. Zoey was sleepy from sugar and adrenaline, Mira looked tense but quiet, and Rumi said barely a word as they slipped out of their shoes and into the soft glow of the apartment’s kitchen light.

Zoey yawned loudly. “I’m gonna go fall into bed like a pancake.”

“Do pancakes fall?” Mira asked, quirking a brow.

“Mine do,” Zoey mumbled, already disappearing down the hall.

Mira lingered in the kitchen, refilling her water bottle. Rumi lingered too, hovering near the doorway to her room, like she was waiting for something to give her permission to move. When Mira turned and caught her gaze, something passed between them again. The car. The almost.

But Rumi just gave her a soft, tired smile and said, “Goodnight.”

Mira nodded but it was clear there was something she wanted to say. “Night, Rumi.”

She retreated to her room and shut the door behind her.

And then Rumi finally exhaled.

Her back hit the door as she slid down to the floor, burying her face in her hands. Everything she’d kept in—every beat of guilt, shame, and hurt—flooded back with a vengeance. She thought of Maya again. Of that voice saying you’re disgusting. Of how easy it had been for her to walk away. And how even now, Maya still had the power to make her feel small.

Rumi wasn’t better.

She was just better at hiding it.

Her breath hitched. Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

With trembling fingers, she reached for her phone and scrolled through the recent calls.

Celine.

She hadn’t spoken to her since the graveyard. Since the apology. Since the pain had been laid bare like an open wound.

Rumi hovered her thumb over the name, heart pounding.

Just do it, she told herself. Just do one thing for yourself.

She hit “Call.”

The phone rang once.

Twice.

“Rumi?”

Celine’s voice was cautious but gentle.

Rumi swallowed. Her eyes burned. “Hey. Um. Sorry it’s late.”

“It’s okay,” Celine said immediately. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Rumi whispered. Her voice cracked. “But I want to be.”

A pause.

Then, softer: “Talk to me.”

Rumi closed her eyes. “I saw her today. Maya.”

Silence on the line.

“She said something again. Not as bad as before but… it was enough. I—I almost had a panic attack. Zoey stepped in before I could spiral all the way, but… it made me realize I’m not okay. I thought I was. But I’m not.”

Celine exhaled, slow and steady. “I’m proud of you for saying that.”

“I want to make the appointment,” Rumi whispered. “For therapy. I… I want to try.”

“Okay,” Celine said gently. “I’ll help you. Tomorrow morning. First thing.”

Rumi wiped her face with her sleeve. “Thank you.”

“I’ll be here, sweetheart,” Celine said, her voice soft and unwavering. “Every step of the way.”

When they hung up, Rumi didn’t cry. She just laid down on her bed, Zoey’s hoodie still wrapped around her like safety.

She wasn’t fixed.

She wasn’t healed.

But she had taken the first step. And that definitely deserved some credit.

-

The morning sun filtered through the apartment blinds in long, golden bars—quiet, too soft for the tension that lingered beneath Rumi’s skin.

She sat at the kitchen table, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, staring at a slice of toast that had gone cold nearly twenty minutes ago. The butter had melted into the bread and then stiffened again, glistening faintly under the light. Zoey was across from her, dramatically spooning cereal into her mouth with a crunch loud enough to wake the dead.

Mira stood at the stove, flipping something in a pan. Eggs, maybe. Or something fancier, judging by the smell of garlic and herbs.

No one had said much.

Not about the movie.

Not about the almost kiss.

And definitely not about Maya.

Rumi appreciated the silence. But it made everything louder inside her head. She turned the toast over in her hands, not really hungry, not really thinking.

Zoey didn’t miss it.

She glanced up between bites, watching Rumi with a hint of concern behind her lashes. She didn’t say anything yet, though. Just chewed thoughtfully and kicked her foot lightly under the table, tapping against Rumi’s ankle.

Rumi blinked and looked up.

“You good?” Zoey asked, voice light but careful.

“Yeah,” Rumi said softly. “Just… tired.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either. Mira turned slightly, her back still half-facing them as she stirred something in the skillet. “You didn’t sleep much.”

Rumi glanced at her. “How do you know?”

Mira shrugged one shoulder. “I passed by your room on my way to the bathroom at 3 a.m. The light was still on.”

Rumi looked back down at her toast.

Then—buzz.

Rumi’s phone lit up beside her plate. She glanced at it. Froze.

The email notification stared up at her:

“Your therapy appointment has been confirmed – Thursday @ 10:30 AM”

Her throat tightened. She hesitated for a beat, thumb hovering, then quietly picked it up and opened the message. Zoey noticed the change in her expression immediately. “What’s that?”

Rumi didn’t answer at first. Then she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and said, barely louder than the hum of the fridge, “It’s my therapy confirmation.”

The words felt strange leaving her mouth. Too vulnerable. Too real.

Both girls stopped what they were doing and Zoey’s spoon clinked against the edge of the bowl. Mira had turned off the stove completely. Rumi glanced between them, nerves prickling her spine. “It’s not a big deal. I just… I told Celine I’d try. And she helped me book one. That’s all.”

Zoey opened her mouth. Closed it again. Then, softly, “That’s not just a ‘just.’ That’s huge, Rum.”

Rumi shrugged. “I don’t want to make a thing out of it.”

Mira walked over, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She didn’t reach out—just leaned against the counter, gaze steady but calm. “We’re not making it a thing. We’re just… proud of you.”

Rumi looked down. “I don’t want you to worry about me.”

“Too late,” Mira said, but her voice was warm. “We already do.”

Zoey tilted her head, resting her cheek in her palm. “Yeah, like, that’s part of the package. You live with us, you get designated worry-warts. Comes with a free side of unsolicited hugs.”

Rumi gave her a small, amused look. “Unsolicited?”

Zoey grinned. “You say that now, but wait ‘til I pounce mid-laundry day.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “Please don’t pounce anyone during laundry day.”

“I can’t make that promise.”

The lightness was welcomed and Rumi felt her shoulders drop, just slightly.

Still, she didn’t say more. She didn’t explain how hard the call had been. How long she’d stared at the number. How her thumb had shaken when she pressed “call.”

She couldn’t get into that.

Not yet.

But when she looked at Mira, she saw understanding. And when she looked at Zoey, she saw unwavering support—even if Zoey’s eyes were already drifting toward the half-eaten Twizzlers on the counter.

They weren’t pushing. And that, more than anything, grounded her.

Rumi picked up her toast again and took a small bite. She watched Mira move around the kitchen, pulling plates, dividing up the food she’d made. Watched Zoey start humming under her breath, reaching for her phone to put on a song that was definitely not breakfast appropriate.

And for the first time in a long time, Rumi felt like maybe she didn’t have to hold everything by herself. Even if she couldn’t share it all. But God did she want to. She was just scared of losing her…friends? Best friends—Crushes?

-

The therapy office didn’t look like a therapy office.

It looked… lived in. Cozy, even. The walls were a soft, butter-yellow—faded a little in the corners, like old paperbacks left in sunlight. One of them was half-covered in framed prints of abstract shapes, bright colors overlapping with chaotic harmony. There were two bookcases that were overstuffed, a coat rack draped with cardigans, and a small humidifier puffing lazily in the corner.

And right in the middle of the room, behind a squat wooden coffee table, sat Bobby.

He stood up the moment Rumi entered. “Hi there,” he said with a warm, round smile. “You must be Rumi. I’m Bobby, I’m really glad you made it.”

Rumi gave a small nod. Her hand tightened on the strap of her purse, the fabric of her oversized hoodie hanging too long over her sleeves. “Hi.”

Bobby was short—shorter than she expected—and round in a way that made him look like a cute gumball. His cartoon fox-print shirt was tucked haphazardly into his pants, and he wore bright orange Crocs with a little flower charm on one. Something about him made her feel like she’d walked into a storybook set instead of a psychologist’s office.

“You can sit anywhere that feels right,” he said, gesturing to the beanbag in the corner and the gently sloped couch by the window. Rumi hovered for a second, then picked the couch—less sinkhole-y.

Bobby settled into his armchair with a dramatic, content sigh. “Best part of my job is getting to sit in this chair. It knows me.”

Rumi almost smiled.

“So,” Bobby continued, folding his hands on his lap. “First sessions are mostly a get-to-know-you thing. You don’t have to tell me everything. Just… whatever you want to share about what brought you here.”

Rumi looked at her hands, fiddling with the drawstring of the hoodie. “I think I don’t know how to be okay.”

Bobby didn’t blink or lean forward dramatically. He just nodded once.

She continued, voice quiet. “I’m good at pretending. I can laugh, be normal, make jokes. But underneath that, I’m always… scared and tense. Like if I let go even a little, everything will break.”

Bobby’s smile faded into something softer. “That sounds like a lot to carry. How long have you been holding all that in?”

“A while,” she whispered. “Since I was a kid, probably. But it got worse the older I got. I started thinking if I just held myself together hard enough, no one would see the cracks.”

“And why would it be bad if they saw the cracks?”

“Because people leave,” Rumi said, too quickly. “When you show them.”

Bobby tilted his head. “Who left?”

She was silent for a long time. Then: “My best friend. Maya. Four years ago.”

He nodded again, patient.

“She… saw something. Scars on my arms. I used to hurt myself when things got too heavy, and I thought I was doing better. I was getting better. But she saw them in the locker room, and…” Her throat tightened. “She called me disgusting. She told me I was sick. That she didn’t know who I was anymore.”

“And that made you think that if she—someone close—couldn’t accept that part of you, no one would.”

Rumi nodded slowly, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. “I think I’ve been trying to make up for it ever since. By being easy. By not needing anything. By keeping everything to myself so no one ever has to deal with… that version of me.”

Bobby’s gaze stayed soft, but his voice turned more serious. “Rumi, what she did was wrong. You were a kid in pain, and instead of offering support, she responded with shame. That’s not on you. That’s on her. You’ve spent all this time building walls around yourself because you think it keeps people safe from you—but really, it’s been keeping you locked inside.”

Rumi bit her lip. “I feel like I’m too much. Like I’m this burden waiting to fall on soneone.”

“Or maybe you’re just someone who learned early on that asking for care felt dangerous,” Bobby said gently. “But care isn’t dangerous. It’s necessary.”

She looked down.

“I’m trying to be okay now. But I keep messing up. I—I almost kissed someone. And she’s not mine. She’s my roommate’s girlfriend. And I feel horrible. I can’t tell them. I don’t want them to see me like that.”

Bobby didn’t react with shock or judgment. He just nodded, thinking. “Sounds like there’s a lot tangled up in that. Shame. Confusion. Guilt.”

“All of it,” Rumi admitted, voice cracking. “They’ve both been so kind to me. They don’t even know how much I’ve needed them. And now I’m scared I’ve already messed it up.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, leaning back. “Then let’s start somewhere simple.”

She blinked at him.

“You don’t have to tell them everything. Not all at once. But if you’re going to let these girls into your life—if they’re already halfway in—then you need to start letting them see you. Not the perfect version. Not the pretend okay. You.”

“But what if they change their minds?” Rumi asked, voice trembling. “What if they stop…liking me?”

“Then they weren’t right for you. But from what I hear?” He smiled faintly. “They already see you more than you realize. And they’re still here.”

Rumi’s eyes burned again and she wiped at them with her sleeve.

“I’m not asking you to confess all your deepest fears today,” Bobby said. “But maybe try starting small. Share something. When it’s quiet. When it’s safe. Let them meet you, not just the version you think they’ll like.”

Rumi sat there for a long time, the room filled with the low hum of the humidifier.

Then she said, softly, “I think I can try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Bobby said. “Therapy isn’t magic. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

She looked up at him—really looked. And saw no pity nor performance. Just someone outside her bubble who might actually care.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome. And hey,” he grinned, “I’ll have more animal shirts next time. Congratulations Rumi, you’ve officially started your therapy arc.”

Rumi huffed a laugh.

“Next week?” Bobby asked, standing up.

“Next week,” she echoed, then hesitated. “I think I’ll try telling them I went. Not the details. Just… that I’m trying.”

“That’s more than enough,” Bobby said warmly, opening the door for her. “That’s very brave.”

She walked out into the sun feeling… lighter. Still scared. Still unsure. But maybe a little more confident than before.

-

The apartment was quiet when Rumi stepped back in.

Not silent—Zoey was humming faintly from somewhere down the hall, and the faint scent of Mira’s pine sol-scented cleaning spray hung in the air—but still. 

She set her bag down gently by the door, like making too much noise might undo the calm she’d worked so hard for. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—a follow-up from the therapy center, a generic “Thanks for showing up today!” with a link to a wellness survey—but she just ignored it. Instead, she walked into the kitchen, where Zoey was cross-legged on the counter, half-heartedly eating dry cereal from the box—again. Mira leaned against the fridge, scrolling on her phone. They both looked up when Rumi appeared.

“Hey, you,” Zoey said gently. “How was…?”

Rumi forced a small smile and walked to the table and set down the boba she had bought for the girls.

She had to break the ice somehow.

“It was okay,” she said, voice light, too casual. “I, uh… I’m going back next week. Tuesday at two.”

Mira nodded slowly. “That’s good,” she said, and the softness in her voice didn’t match the neutral way she phrased it. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Rumi admitted handing Mira her boba. Mira eyes softened and said a “thank you” as she took a sip.

It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. Just not the whole truth. Because what she really felt was cracked open—like someone had taken a chisel to her ribs and let air in for the first time in years. She sat down, pressing her palms to the edge of the chair. “I think it helped,” she added, after a beat. “He… he gave me some things to think about.”

Zoey tilted her head, smiling as Rumi handed her the boba. “Good things? Also thank you Rumi!”

“Scary things,” Rumi smiled slightly. “But maybe the good kind of scary. I don’t know yet.”

Neither of them pressed, and for that, she was quietly grateful. They just nodded, accepting it for what it was. A first step.

Because now that she had said it—out loud, in therapy—about how she pushes people away, about how she doesn’t trust softness even when it’s standing right in front of her in a pair of baggy jeans and or yellow bucket hat—it was harder to keep pretending.

“You’re allowed to take up space,” Bobby had told her. “But if you want love to stay, you have to let it see you.”

She kept repeating that in her head, over and over, like a mantra she wasn’t sure she believed yet. She was mid-sip of her own boba when Zoey leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. “Hey, Rumi?”

Rumi glanced up. “Yeah?”

Zoey smiled a little too innocently. “Can we see the poem?”

Rumi blinked. “What poem?”

Mira glanced over, equally curious now.

“The one about the girl with the hands that never shake,” Zoey said, eyes twinkling like she already knew she was poking a bear. “Jinu told us to ask.”

Rumi nearly dropped her cup.

Her whole face went crimson. “He did what?”

Mira raised her brows, intrigued. “The hands that never shake?”

Rumi was already sliding lower in her seat. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Too late,” Zoey grinned. “Now you have to show us.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“No, you don’t,” Mira said calmly. “But we’d like to see it.”

There was no pressure in her tone—just quiet curiosity, the kind that sat in the middle of the table and waited patiently.

Rumi’s heart thudded painfully in her chest. She looked down, picking at the lid on her cup. She could feel their eyes on her—expectant, but not demanding. Warm. Waiting.

And in her head, Bobby’s voice echoed again.

“You don’t have to tell them everything. But let them in a little. Crack the door. See what happens.”

She swallowed hard. Then stood slowly.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Zoey blinked, then looked at Mira. Mira said nothing, just watched her go—calm and steady.

Rumi stepped into her room and closed the door behind her. For a second, she just stood there, staring at her bookshelf. Then she crossed the room and crouched next to the drawer where she kept her journals. Not the ones for class. Not the ones for art references or grocery lists or sketches. The one she never let anyone see. The dark green one with the little plastic bookmark tucked in at a folded corner.

She opened it with trembling hands.

The poem wasn’t long. It barely filled a page. But her handwriting looked vulnerable there on the paper—slanted and soft, like even her pen had been unsure of the words. She read it once, just to remember what she was about to do. Her throat tightened when she reached the last line.

Rumi let out a slow breath. Her fingers hovered over the edge of the paper. Then she closed the notebook, held it tightly to her chest, and stood up. She didn’t let herself think too long. Just walked back down the hall, back toward the kitchen where two people who loved her were still sitting, still waiting. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t running from the weight of being seen.

She was bringing the proof.

-

The notebook was warm in Rumi’s hands from how long she’d been holding it.

She’d been standing by her door for almost ten minutes, staring at the cover, debating whether to go back out or stay and pretend she’d gotten distracted. Her knees were bent, her braid half undone from the nervous pacing she’d done earlier. She’d read Bobby’s sticky note again—“You’re allowed to be loved out loud.” It had nearly sent her back into hiding.

But now—somehow—she was standing in the living room, notebook clutched to her chest like it might keep her upright.

Mira and Zoey looked up from the couch where they were curled into opposite corners, a blanket over both their legs. They went silent when they saw her.

Rumi swallowed hard and stepped forward, then sat slowly on the couch nearest them. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She placed the notebook in her lap but didn’t open it. For a second, all she could hear was the tick of the hallway clock and the hum of the fridge.

“I—um…” she started, voice low. “Jinu didn’t lie. There’s a poem.”

Zoey lit up. “You brought it?”

Rumi gave a shaky nod.

Mira straightened, tucking her legs underneath her. “You don’t have to read it if it’s too much.”

“I want to.” Her fingers gripped the edges of the notebook. “I just… I’m terrified.”

“You don’t need to be,” Zoey said gently, her voice like a hand on her back. “We’re not here to judge. Just to listen.”

“Some of it is about you—both of you,” Rumi admitted, cheeks flushing pink. “Not directly. But it’s about… what I feel around you.”

Mira’s expression softened. “That’s okay.”

Rumi took a shallow breath. Then another, deeper this time. And slowly, she opened the notebook to the page with the crease worn down the middle from rereading it over and over.Her hands were shaking—but her voice was steady when it came. Quiet, but clear. She didn’t look at them. She couldn’t.

“They taught me stillness much too young

To bite my tongue and hold my lung.

To hide the storm beneath my skin,

And wear a mask that wouldn’t thin.”

Mira’s eyes didn’t leave her and Zoey held her breath.

“My hands learned fast to never flinch,

To never give, not even an inch.

Because a trembling hand could give away

The thoughts I swore I’d never say.”

There was something about saying it aloud that made it real. That made it ache.

“So every brush was calm and clean,

Each stroke a shield, each line left unseen.

I painted peace with the aching grace,

While silence grew behind my face.”

She faltered for just a second—but the quiet in the room held her.

“They call it strength, this quiet ache

The girl with hands that never shake.

But the truth is softer, far less kind

It’s fear that keeps me locked inside.”

Zoey swallowed audibly as Mira’s thumb ran over her knuckle in slow circles.

“Then came two lights I didn’t seek,

One loud and bright, the other sleek.

One with fire behind her grin,

One a little tougher within.”

Mira inhaled sharply. Zoey blinked fast.

“They never asked for all that I hide,

Just sat beside and stayed the tide.

Their hands were warm, their voices kind,

Their laughter shook down the walls of mine.”

Rumi felt her own voice crack.

“And when they looked, they didn’t pry,

Just waited gently for the why.

I felt the quake beneath my ribs

A pull I only knew as ‘what if.’”

She paused. And finally looked up.

Both of them were frozen. Zoey’s mouth was open slightly, Mira’s brows drawn, eyes full.

“What if I were brave.

What if I could bend.

What if fear was not my oldest friend.

What if I could speak and not regret

Each word I hadn’t swallowed yet.”

Zoey reached over and gently touched Mira’s hand.

“I now don’t shake—but now I ache,

With want for things I can’t unmake.

A gaze too long, a breath too close,

A hand I dream but fear the most.”

Mira’s gaze flicked to Zoey then back to Rumi.

“So this is truth, and not disguise

It lives in ink and silent cries.

I hide my storm for my own sake—

The girl with hands that never shake.”

When the final line fell into the room, Rumi’s breath caught. For a second, she wondered if she’d just shattered something between them. She blinked down at the page, her chest tight, her ears ringing.

But then Zoey moved.

She stood up, walked over, and sank slowly to her knees in front of Rumi.

Her voice was gentle. “Can I see it?”

Rumi nodded slowly and handed over the notebook. Their fingers brushed. Rumi’s was ice. Zoey looked down at the page, reading it again, mouth forming some of the words silently. When she looked back up, her eyes were wet.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “And I’ve read the entire Diary Of A Wimpy Kid  series.”

Mira snorted from the couch—wetly. Zoey turned to her and then back to Rumi. “You wrote that about us?”

“Not all of it but, yeah. I didn’t mean to at first,” Rumi said, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “But it… it became about you guys. About this. Everything I’ve been feeling and not saying.”

“It’s okay,” Mira said softly. “You can say it now. We’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m scared,” Rumi admitted, looking down again. “I feel like if I say the wrong thing or want the wrong thing, I’ll ruin it.”

“You won’t,” Zoey said, still kneeling, her hand now resting over Rumi’s on the notebook. “We’re already in it with you.”

“Do you really mean that?”

Mira rose from the couch and walked over, standing behind Zoey now. “We love you, Rumi. Not the version you think you have to be. You. All of you.

Zoey stood and wrapped her arms around her, tucking her chin on Rumi’s shoulder. “You’re not too much.” Mira bent down slightly and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re just right.”

Rumi cried then—quietly, as she melted between the two of them, held in warmth, wrapped in the softness she’d convinced herself she wasn’t allowed to ask for.

No one rushed her.

They didn’t ask her for more. They didn’t prod.

They just stayed.

And for the first time in a very long time, Rumi didn’t feel like a poem no one could finish.

She felt read.

Chapter Text

Rumi woke up before either of them. Again.

It wasn’t on purpose—at least not consciously—but ever since that moment in the car, her brain had decided sleeping past 7 a.m. was a luxury she no longer deserved.

She stood at the kitchen counter in her slippers, stirring a pot of oatmeal with more focus than was strictly necessary, every clockwise motion somehow erasing or re-etching the memory from last night.

Mira’s face inches from hers.

That tiny breath between them. Her own heart kicking against her chest like it was trying to escape.

Nothing had happened. Nothing had happened.

Except something had.

And now everything felt… weird.

Not for them, apparently. Mira had waltzed into the kitchen in her usual baggy grey sweatpants and tank top that somehow made her arms look more illegal than they had any right to be, rubbing sleep from her eyes and yawning like nothing had shifted in the universe.

But Rumi?

Rumi was spiraling.

She kept her gaze on the oatmeal as Mira padded in, phone in hand, hair out and cascading down her back in messy strands—the way she did when she didn’t care about being hot and just was anyway.

“You’re up early,” Mira said, voice still thick with sleep.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep,” Rumi mumbled.

“Mm,” Mira yawned again. “That smells good.”

Rumi stirred harder. “It’s just oatmeal.”

“Still. I appreciate the effort, Gordon Ramsey.”

A small chuckle slipped out before Rumi could stop it. Damn it. She’d forgotten Mira could make her laugh even when she didn’t want to. That was part of the problem.

Mira opened the fridge, humming to herself. Rumi stared into the pot, wondering if anyone had ever drowned in oatmeal and if that would be considered dramatic or just texturally unfortunate.

She could feel Mira behind her—close but not too close. Like she always was.

That’s the issue, isn’t it? Rumi’s inner voice was cruel this morning. She knows how to get close without touching you. That’s why you want her so badly.

And Mira had a girlfriend. A girlfriend who was kind, loving, freaky in the best ways, and utterly devoted. Rumi had no business  wanting her—or wanting them.

She stirred harder.

“You okay?” Mira asked.

Rumi blinked. “What?”

“You’re stirring like you’re trying to summon a demon.”

“Oh.” She forced herself to stop, pulling the spoon out and placing it down carefully. “Just… zoned out.”

Mira tilted her head like she was about to ask more, but before she could—a loud crash came from down the hall, followed by Zoey’s voice, “I’M FINE! THAT WAS ON PURPOSE!”

Mira snorted. “That’s our girl.”

Rumi smiled in spite of herself. “Should I make more oatmeal?”

“Nah,” Mira said, already grabbing two mugs. “She’s probably craving something chaotic like ramyeon and cream cheese.”

As if on cue, Zoey came skidding into the kitchen, socks sliding on the tile. Her hoodie was on backwards, and her dark waves were in a pineapple that defied gravity. “Do we have iced coffee?” she asked, not even looking before opening the fridge.

Mira held up a mug. “No, but I was about to make some.”

“I love you so much,” Zoey groaned. “Like I would actually perish without you. Like I would literally evaporate into the earth.”

Rumi laughed softly, ducking her head. Zoey’s dramatics were… grounding. So was Mira’s deadpan expression as she handed her the mug.

As the three of them sat down at the table—Zoey eating cold leftover pizza, Mira sipping her coffee, and Rumi picking at her oatmeal—they talked about everything and nothing. About the Mean Girls reboot being kind of terrible but in a nostalgic way. About Zoey’s theories on who would win in a rap battle: Elsa or Snow White. About why every grocery store had a haunted corner near the eggs.

And yet, underneath it all, Rumi’s thoughts kept flickering back to the car.

The almost-kiss.

The way Mira had looked at her.

And how badly she wanted it to happen again… even if she knew it shouldn’t.

-

It wasn’t entirely clear how they ended up going grocery shopping.

One moment, Zoey had been complaining about the last slice of pizza tasting “like if regret had a texture,” and then next, Mira was squinting at the fridge like it had personally betrayed her. Apparently, they were out of “literally everything important” except sriracha, almond milk, and one lonely egg that may or may not have been from the pre-semester haul.

“We need real food,” Mira said, shutting the fridge with the resigned finality of someone who just realized she might need to interact with the public.

“Grocery trip?” Zoey grinned, already perking up like she’d just heard the ice cream truck.

“I’ll stay,” Rumi offered, almost too quickly.

Both Mira and Zoey turned to her.

“I just mean, I don’t want to get in the way—”

“You’d rather be home with our haunted oatmeal and ghost egg?” Zoey raised a brow.

“I’m not exactly dressed for public,” Rumi said, gesturing vaguely to her oversized purple sweater and bunny socks.

“You literally look like a Pinterest board,” Zoey said, already grabbing her keys. “You’re coming.”

Mira’s gaze flicked to her. “Unless you don’t want to.”

The softness in her voice made Rumi’s stomach tighten. She shook her head quickly. “No, I’ll come…just let me change real quick”

And ten minutes later, they were packed into Mira’s car—Zoey in the back seat, stretched horizontally across the seats, and Rumi riding shotgun in what felt like a repeat of that cursed almost-kiss. Mira didn’t say much on the way, humming lowly to whatever playlist was on. Rumi stared at her lap, clutching the grocery list like it might shield her from intrusive thoughts and bisexual guilt.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

-

The grocery store was a war zone.

It always was when the three of them went together. Mira had a meticulous list. Zoey had a see-food-and-buy mentality. And Rumi, unfortunately, had both anxiety and opinions.

“We need vegetables,” Mira said, steering the cart toward the produce section like a general heading into battle. “Corn chips are vegetables,” Zoey argued, already veering off toward the snack aisle.

Rumi hung back, laughing softly as she watched Zoey dart around like a caffeinated raccoon. Mira gave her a tired but affectionate look, the kind that made Rumi’s heart clench uncomfortably in her chest. “So,” Mira said, nudging the cart forward with one hand. “You good?”

Rumi blinked. “Yeah. I mean… I’m fine.”

Mira didn’t press, but the glance she gave her said she didn’t believe it. Again.

They browsed in relative peace for a while—Rumi picking out strawberries, Mira grabbing ingredients for some mystery stir-fry she insisted she’d make later. Then Zoey returned with a pack of mini cupcakes and an energy drink the colour of nuclear waste.

“They had buy one get one free,” she announced proudly, despite only having bought one of each.

“That’s not what that means,” Mira said flatly.

“I was emotionally buying one and spiritually receiving the second,” Zoey replied, as if that made perfect sense.

Rumi cracked up, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Mira rolled her eyes but the corner of her mouth twitched up.

Zoey leaned dramatically on the cart. “Okay, question. If you were a cereal, what cereal would you be?”

Mira didn’t look up. “Grape-Nuts.”

“That’s so rude,” Zoey gasped. “You’re sexy Raisin Bran at least.”

Rumi was laughing again before she could stop herself. “What’s sexy Raisin Bran?”

“Raisin Bran with confidence,” Zoey replied immediately. “Like. Raisin Bran that knows it’s boring but has incredible ego.”

Mira finally snorted. “What about you, then?”

“Fruity Pebbles,” Zoey said proudly. “Gay. Colourful. Gets soggy immediately.”

She turned to Rumi. “You’re probably something soft and underrated. Like… oh! Honey Bunches of Oats!”

“Why?” Rumi asked, both curious and suspicious.

“Because you’re warm and wholesome and sometimes emotionally crunchy,” Zoey said, linking her arm through Rumi’s. “And you belong in everyone’s house.”

Rumi went bright red. “I—okay—well—”

“She’s right, though,” Mira murmured beside them.

And just like that, the spiral began again.

It wasn’t fair. Mira wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was allowed to compliment her. To look at her like that. To say soft things with that gentle voice and those impossible eyes.

But Rumi couldn’t help it—every compliment from Mira lately made her ache.

The cart creaked forward on slightly rusted wheels as the trio moved deeper into the supermarket, zigzagging between shelves stacked high with temptation. Mira pushed the cart like it was a mission, eyes locked on the list Zoey had scribbled into her Notes app at 2 a.m. the night before. Rumi walked beside her, doing her best not to visibly spiral every time their hands brushed, while Zoey… Zoey was currently MIA.

“She’s gone,” Mira muttered, barely glancing up from the list. “I told her not to stray off. What even is ‘emergency marshmallows’? That wasn’t on the list last night.”

Rumi shrugged, lips twitching. “She said the same thing about ‘non-weird corn.’ I didn’t question it.” They turned a corner near the dairy section and peered down an empty aisle. Still no sign of Zoey. Mira sighed and stopped the cart. “She better not be reorganizing the jelly beans again. I swear to God, Rumi, I caught her last time arranging them by ‘emotional energy.’”

“I remember,” Rumi said softly, her smile widening just a little. “I think she said the blue ones were ‘sad but hopeful.’”

“She’s ridiculous,” Mira grumbled, but her eyes were full of fondness.

“Should we split up and find her?”

Before Mira could answer, the peace of the store was suddenly shattered by an echoing—

“CAW—CAW!!”

Rumi nearly jumped out of her skin. Several heads turned in confusion, a baby started crying, and one old woman shook her head in disapproval as the sound reverberated through the store like some kind of cursed bird mating call.

Mira groaned into her palm. “No. No no no. Don’t do this to me.”

“CAW-CAW!!” Zoey’s voice rang again, clear as a bell, followed by a “helloooOOOooO??” that trailed off like she was ghost-hunting.

“I can’t believe this is real life,” Mira muttered, abandoning the cart like it had betrayed her and walking briskly toward the sound.

Rumi scurried after her, trying not to laugh too loudly. “At least she’s consistent?”

They found Zoey two aisles over, standing proudly atop the lowest shelf like a scout in a jungle film. Her cheeks were flushed with the thrill of the hunt, a bag of cheese puffs in one hand and a bag of marshmallows in the other.

“There you are!” she grinned. “I knew my mating call would work in the grocery store.”

Mira’s jaw ticked. “You cannot use ‘mating call’ and ‘grocery store’ in the same sentence.”

“Too late,” Zoey chirped, hopping down. “Also, emergency marshmallows acquired. I got the fruity ones this time in case we need taste bud heaven and sugar.”

Rumi couldn’t help it—she giggled. Loudly.

Zoey turned toward her like she’d just won a gold medal. “See? She gets it. Rumi has the spirit of a ‘caw-caw-er.’”

Mira looked at Rumi, deadpan. “I’m afraid this is your future now.”

“I’ve made peace with it,” Rumi said shyly, cheeks pink.

Zoey beamed. “See! Babe, she’s adapting!”

Rumi’s ears turned a deeper shade of red at the word babe, even if it wasn’t directed at her. She kept her eyes on the marshmallows in Zoey’s hand, as if it held answers to her internal chaos.

They continued shopping with Zoey now firmly sandwiched between the two of them—likely a strategic move on Mira’s part to prevent further disappearances. The cart was filling up quickly: produce, snacks, ramyeon of every flavor, and a questionable amount of cheese.

“I feel like we need more protein,” Mira said as they paused by the cold cuts. “What do we want? Chicken, beef, tofu?”

“I want hot dogs,” Zoey said. “The sketchy, juicy kind that you question but still eat at 2 a.m.”

“You are the reason I have trust issues,” Mira muttered.

Zoey ignored her and grabbed a pack. “They speak to my spirit.”

Rumi chuckled again under her breath, and for a moment, things felt easier—softer. The tension that had been riding low in her chest all day lifted, just slightly, like a cloud shifting to let through some sun.

Even Mira’s posture seemed to loosen. She tossed a pack of chicken breasts into the cart and glanced sideways at Rumi. “We could cook dinner together tomorrow. If you want.”

“Oh.” Rumi blinked. “I’d like that.”

Zoey clapped her hands together. “Cooking party! Can we wear aprons and pretend we’re in a cooking show? Ouu I’ll be the judge who eats everything before it’s plated.”

“No,” Mira said flatly.

“Yes,” Rumi said, smiling fully now.

Mira stared at her, then shook her head with a small, affectionate sigh. “I’m being outvoted. Great.”

As they moved toward the checkout, Zoey tossed in a few last-minute items: lip balm, another bag of cheese puffs, a tiny plush avocado keychain Rumi had stared at for too long. She didn’t even notice Zoey had grabbed it until they were almost done bagging groceries and Zoey handed it to her without fanfare. “It reminded me of you.”

Rumi looked down at the tiny, smiling avocado and nearly cried on the spot.

She couldn’t tell them—not yet—that moments like these broke her open in small, silent ways. That even through all the guilt and confusion and questions swirling inside her, this—them—felt like safety.

-

Back at the apartment, Zoey flopped dramatically onto the couch with a groan the second they finished unpacking the last grocery bag. “That was hell,” she mumbled into a throw pillow, her legs hanging over the armrest.

Mira snorted from the kitchen, calmly wiping down the counter with a damp cloth. “You got distracted by a wall of marshmallows. That’s not hell baby, that’s poor discipline.”

“I was defending us from high-fructose danger,” Zoey fired back, lifting her head just enough to glare playfully at Mira. “Do you want us to be boring and joyless? Is that what you want?”

Mira didn’t even look up. “Kinda.”

Rumi let out a tiny laugh from the hallway where she’d stopped to stretch her back. “You two need a nap.”

“I need a massage,” Zoey whined.

Rumi grinned to herself, a little tired but still smiling. The apartment smelled like fruit and cinnamon from Mira’s scented candles, and the sound of her roommates lightly bickering was starting to feel like… home.

She disappeared into her bedroom to change out of the shirt she had somehow gotten flour on—Zoey’s fault, probably—and just as she reached for her top drawer, her phone buzzed loudly on her nightstand.

Jinu💀 FaceTime audio 

Rumi raised an eyebrow and answered, already suspicious.

“What did you do?” she greeted instead of the usual hello.

“Wow,” Jinu replied flatly. “I didn’t even say anything yet.”

“You don’t need to. You told them about the poem.”

Jinu laughed immediately. “Yeah, and? You let them read it righttt.”

“Yeah, well I had no choice because they asked me and, oh—I wonder why? Oh right—because you told them to!”

“You’re welcome.”

“Jinu!” she hissed, half-heartedly. “They’re in it! You knew that!”

“Exactly why I told them to ask. Someone has to jumpstart your life. Might as well be me.”

Rumi groaned and rolled her eyes as she sat on the edge of her bed, kicking her shorts off. “You’re the worst. Like. The actual worst.”

“I’m the best worst rumsicle.”

Rumi rolled her eyes and put her phone on speaker before setting it down on her nightstand. “You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t deny the truth, babe. You love me.”

She didn’t even get the chance to respond before the door suddenly flung open. “RUMI!” Zoey burst in, winded and dramatic. “Mira just found out we bought three different kinds of hummus and she’s trying to merge them into one mega hummus—”

She skidded to a stop.

“OH. You’re—undressing. Cool.”

Rumi yelped and jumped to the side, clutching her shirt to her chest. “ZO! Knock!”

“Sorry! Sorry! My bad!” Zoey covered her eyes, but her mouth twitched like she was about to laugh. “I just—Hummus emergency!”

“THEN TEXT ME.”

On the phone, Jinu snorted. “Is this a bad time?”

Zoey looked toward the phone and squinted. “Is that Jinu? Hey bestie!”

“Hey Zoey,” Jinu replied. “What’re you doing in Rumi’s room while she’s half-naked?”

“Sabotaging hummus diplomacy before neither of us make it to twenty three.”

“I believe it.”

Zoey finally turned away to leave and was halfway through the door when, “Wait, actually—she reminded me. Rumi. What are we doing for your birthday next week?”

The room went still.

Rumi slowly turned to stare at her phone.

Jinu sighed. “Oops.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait. Birthday? Next week?”

Rumi stared at her phone like it had betrayed her.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she muttered, pulling her shirt on quickly, cheeks burning.

“You live with your girlfriends,” Jinu said. “They deserve to make a big deal out of it.”

Zoey gasped. “Next week?! Rumi!”

“I was gonna pretend it didn’t exist!” she yelled over the chaos.

“Too late now!” Jinu laughed, evil. “I have to go but—love you. Have fun explaining to your women why you were gonna ghost your own birthday.”

The call ended.

Zoey stood in the doorway, arms crossed now, grinning. “We’re gonna make you cake,” she said. “And I’m gonna decorate the apartment. And Mira’s gonna pretend to be annoyed at the mess, but she’ll help.”

Rumi groaned and hid her face in her hands. “Zoeyyyy.”

Zoey walked back over and wrapped her arms around her from behind, gently. “You’re not allowed to be unloved in this house. That’s the rule.”

Rumi leaned into her touch, quiet for a moment. Then, “…Fine—can I at least choose the cake flavour?”

Zoey nodded against her shoulder. “Deal. But no raisins. Mira will kill us.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Rumi was suspicious before she even made it to the kitchen.

The apartment was too… quiet.

Not loud—Mira wasn’t the type to blast music before coffee, and Zoey didn’t seem to be in one of her “play all the Mamma Mia soundtracks at once” moods but there was something in the air.

A barely contained buzz.

She padded in wearing her purple sweater from yesterday, hair still messy from sleep, and was greeted by the sight of Mira at the counter with her sleeves pushed up, calmly slicing cucumber.

Calm on the outside, anyway.

The slight twitch in her jaw told a different story. Meanwhile, Zoey was leaning across the kitchen island like she’d been caught mid-gossip. Hands cupped around her mug, eyes darting to Rumi like she’d just walked in on a surprise meeting.

“Morning,” Rumi said slowly.

They both said “Morning” way too fast.

Suspicious.

Zoey cleared her throat and tried to sound casual. “So. How do you feel about… cake?”

Rumi froze halfway to the kettle. “Cake?”

Mira didn’t look up from her chopping board. “Zoey…”

“What? I’m just asking about cake.” Zoey smiled too wide, too bright. “Totally innocent question.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

“No reason.” Zoey took a loud sip of coffee, then glanced at Mira for backup. Mira sighed. “We were going to talk to you about… trying the hummus today.”

“The what?” Rumi blinked.

Both of them moved at the same time — Mira opening the fridge, Zoey crouching dramatically in front of it like a game show assistant and revealed the shelf that now held three different tubs of hummus, all in varying stages of depletion.

Mira pointed. “This is your fault.”

Zoey gasped. “My fault? You’re the one who bought the extra garlic one when we already had roasted red pepper and lemon herb!”

“You bought lemon herb and roasted red pepper on the same day!”

“I was in a hummus mood!” Zoey defended, throwing her arms out. “Sue me!”

Rumi blinked at them, torn between amusement and genuine confusion. “So… what’s the plan here?”

Mira held up the containers like evidence in a trial. “We’re combining them. We can’t waste food.”

Zoey turned to Rumi like she was about to deliver terrible news. “I thought she listened yesterday when I told her not to—guess not. She’s making mega hummus.”

“Mega hummus,” Rumi repeated, lips twitching.

“Exactly,” Zoey said gravely. “It’s dangerous. Unnatural. Goes against the laws of snack time.”

“It’s efficient,” Mira countered. “And it’ll taste fine.”

Zoey’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. You’re like a hummus serial killer.”

Rumi snorted before she could stop herself. “You can’t kill hummus.”

“You can if you mix three incompatible flavors into one Franken-dip,” Zoey said, moving to stand protectively in front of the containers. “I will not allow this tragedy.”

Mira gave her a deadpan stare. “Move.”

“No.”

There was a long pause. Then Mira, with the calm precision of someone who had clearly done this before, simply reached around Zoey, picked up her up and gently tossed her on the couch. She then grabbed the three tubs at once, and placed them on the counter.

Zoey gasped as she landed with a flop. “You monster!”

Rumi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Mira unsealed each tub and dumped their contents into a large mixing bowl. The smells of garlic, roasted peppers, and lemon started blending in the air.

“This is—” Zoey began.

“Don’t say war,” Mira interrupted.

“…culinary homicide,” Zoey finished.

Rumi covered her mouth to hide her laugh. “You two have way too much energy for this early in the morning.” Zoey turned on her. “Rumi, you can’t just stand there! You have to pick a side!”

“Yeah,” Mira said, spoon poised above the bowl. “Do you want functional hummus or Zoey’s chaos?”

Rumi bit back a smile. “I think I want… to watch this play out.”

Zoey looked betrayed. “Neutrality in times of a hummus crisis? Shame.”

Mira stirred the mixture with a steady, methodical rhythm, unbothered by Zoey’s gasps of horror. “See? It’s blending perfectly.”

“Blending perfectly into despair,” Zoey muttered.

Rumi’s stomach hurt from holding in her laughter. “Okay, but… can I try it when you’re done?”

Zoey whipped around, eyes wide. “You’re going to eat the crime scene?!”

“She’s going to love it,” Mira said confidently, setting the bowl on the counter with a quiet thunk. “Get the pita chips.”

Five minutes later, the three of them were seated at the kitchen table with a mountain of chips between them. Mira presented the mega hummus like it was a five-star meal and Zoey looked like she was about to cry.

Rumi, trying not to grin too much, scooped a generous amount onto a chip and took a bite.

She chewed. Swallowed. And paused.

“…It’s actually really good.”

Mira smirked. “Told you.”

Zoey gasped again, hand over her heart. “You both are sick and twisted.” 

Rumi shrugged, grabbing another chip. “Sorry. Guess I’m not that picky.”

Mira’s eyes flicked to hers at that, soft and unreadable, before she looked back at her own plate. Zoey, either oblivious or pretending to be, shoved a chip into her mouth and mumbled around it, “Fine. But if we all get cursed, I’m blaming you two.”

-

The Mega Hummus Incident ended with Zoey in mock mourning over the “loss of three beautiful, distinct hummuses” and Mira calmly putting the mixing bowl in the sink.

Rumi figured that was the end of the morning chaos.

She was wrong.

It started small—a whisper between Mira and Zoey when Rumi came back from the bathroom. They were at the counter again, shoulder to shoulder, and Zoey was scrolling on her phone like she was making the most important purchase of her life. Mira leaned in, pointing at something on the screen.

They both went silent the second Rumi walked in.

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” they said in unison.

Suspicious. Again.

She poured herself more tea, pretending not to care, but the way Zoey was vibrating in her seat and Mira kept glancing at the clock was impossible to ignore.

Later, Zoey “casually” asked if Rumi was going to be home that afternoon.

“Probably?” Rumi said slowly. “Why?”

Zoey froze, eyes darting to Mira. Mira, without missing a beat, said, “We might… need to run out for a bit. Errands.”

“What kind of errands?”

“Just… errands,” Zoey said, which was about as convincing as a cat saying it hadn’t touched the plant you just saw it chew.

Mira, clearly sensing Zoey’s unraveling, jumped in. “We need… lemons.”

Rumi raised an eyebrow. “We just bought lemons yesterday.”

“For—” Zoey’s brain visibly stalled, “—emergency lemon bread.”

“Emergency lemon bread…?” Rumi repeated.

“Exactly.” Zoey nodded too fast. “You never know when a lemon bread crisis will strike.”

Mira was pressing her lips together, either to keep her from laughing or throwing Zoey back on the couch.

The so-called errands happened after lunch. Rumi watched them both try to act normal as they grabbed their jackets. Mira was calm in that precise, measured way she got when she was hiding something. Zoey on the other hand, looked like she was seconds from blurting out state secrets.

“Don’t wait up!” Zoey said cheerfully, which made no sense because they were going to be gone, at most, an hour.

The door closed behind them, and the apartment felt strangely quiet. When they returned, Rumi was curled on the couch with a blanket and her laptop. She barely looked up—but she did notice:

1. Mira’s hair was slightly windblown.
   
   
2. Zoey was holding a large, suspiciously heavy cardboard box with both hands, handling it like it was fragile.
   
   
3. They were both grinning. Not wide, not obvious. Just… smug.
   
   

“What’s in the box?” Rumi asked.

Zoey froze, then tried to look casual. “Uh. Supplies.”

Mira set her coat on the hook. “It’s for the… special surprise.”

Rumi blinked. “The what?”

“Special surprise,” Zoey repeated quickly, already moving toward Mira’s room. “Totally unrelated to anything in the near future.”

Rumi raised an eyebrow. “You’re bad liars.”

Mira, already halfway down the hall, called back, “We’ll take that under advisement.”

The door to Mira’s room clicked shut, and Rumi was left on the couch, staring after them. Her curiosity itched like a mosquito bite she wasn’t supposed to scratch.

Special surprise.

What in the world were they up to?

-

That night, the apartment felt… busier than usual. Not noisy, but more like it was holding its breath. Rumi was at her desk, half-heartedly scrolling through emails from the university updating them on the strike, when a muffled thump came from Mira’s room.

She froze.

Then came a pause.

Another sound—softer this time, like something shifting in a box. Her brain immediately supplied all the wrong possibilities:

1. They’d adopted a raccoon.
   
   
2. Mira was building some sort of secret art installation for Zoey.
   
   
3. Zoey had bought one of those mystery boxes from the internet again and it had come alive.
   
   

The door cracked open just enough for Zoey’s head to appear. She jumped when she saw Rumi looking. “Oh! Uh. Hey. Totally fine in here. Everything’s fine.”

“Uh-huh,” Rumi said slowly. “Is that the… special surprise?”

Zoey’s eyes went cartoon-wide. “What? No. Definitely not. I mean, yes. But also no. And you shouldn’t be asking questions.” Before Rumi could respond, Mira appeared behind Zoey, holding something in her hands — something small, wrapped in a soft towel. She shot Zoey a look sharp enough to cut glass.

Zoey winced. “Right. We’re… gonna finish up. Don’t worry about it.”

They both disappeared back into the room, shutting the door firmly this time. A minute later, Rumi could’ve sworn she heard Zoey whisper, “Did you feed it already?”

Mira’s quiet, low answer was impossible to catch—but the soft scritch-scritch that followed made the hairs on Rumi’s arms stand up.

She stared at the closed door for a long moment, chewing her lip.

Whatever this special surprise was, it definitely wasn’t lemons.

-

Their plan was airtight.

Or so Zoey claimed.

Mira wasn’t as convinced, mostly because airtight plans didn’t usually involve Zoey being in charge of timing. They were both in the kitchen, Mira double-checking her purse for her wallet, keys, and the folded-up list of very specific instructions, while Zoey peeked through the blinds like they were waiting for a black market drop off.

“Relax,” Mira said, zipping her bag. “He’s two minutes late, not two hours.”

Zoey made a small, impatient noise. “Two minutes is a lot when we’re on a stealth mission.”

Mira arched a brow. “Stealth mission?”

“Yes.” Zoey nodded firmly. “Operation: Special Surprise Temporarily Extraction. Code name—”

The doorbell rang.

Zoey nearly tripped over her own feet getting there, but Mira caught her arm before she could fling the door open like a kid during a sugar rush. “Maybe try acting normal?”

Zoey ignored her and opened the door to reveal Jinu, leaning casually against the frame like this was the most normal Friday pickup in the world. He glanced between them with an amused smile. “You two look… suspicious.”

“Us? Never,” Zoey said too quickly, stepping aside to let him in.

Mira shut the door behind him, lowering her voice automatically. “It’s in my room. I’ve already set everything up.”

“Got the list?” Jinu asked.

She handed him the folded paper as well as some crisp bills from her purse. “Follow it exactly. No substitutions. No experiments.”

Jinu unfolded it, scanning the neat handwriting. “‘No loud noises, keep it away from the heater, and—’” He broke off to grin at Mira. “You wrote ‘gentle encouragement only.’”

Zoey grinned too. “She’s been treating it like royalty.”

Mira ignored both of them. “Do you understand the timing?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Jinu said, standing straight and giving her a little salute.

From her room, Rumi’s voice called, “Who’s at the door?”

Zoey’s eyes went wide. “Uh—pizza guy!” she yelled back, then winced at how obviously false it sounded. Mira muttered, “You’re terrible at this,” and gestured for Jinu to follow her down the hall.

They slipped into her room and shut the door. Zoey hovered by the hallway corner, keeping watch like some sort of sitcom burglar, until Mira emerged with the box—the same heavy, careful hold she’d used the day they brought it home. Jinu took it without hesitation, steadying it against his chest. Whatever was inside shifted just enough to make the cardboard rustle.

“Thanks,” he said softly, like they were exchanging crown jewels.

Mira gave him a pointed look. “We’re trusting you.”

“Trust received.”

Zoey poked her head in. “We good?”

“We’re good,” Jinu confirmed.

They moved quickly after that—Jinu out the back door with the box, Mira and Zoey grabbing their jackets.

Earlier that day.

It started over food, like a lot of conversations in the apartment often did.

Rumi was curled into the corner of the couch with a book, one leg tucked under her, while Zoey and Mira sat at the middle in a suspiciously “we’re planning something” way.

She noticed the quiet first. Too quiet for those two.

Finally, Zoey leaned her chin on her hand and called, “Hey, Rumi.”

“Mhm?” Rumi didn’t look up from her page.

“What’re you doing tonight?”

That got her attention.

She closed the book on her finger. “Why?”

Zoey glanced at Mira like she’d been tagged in for the hard part. Mira, to her rescue, didn’t hesitate. “We thought we’d take you out for dinner. Just the three of us.”

Rumi frowned slightly. “Why?”

Zoey’s eyes darted to Mira again—Mira didn’t so much as blink. “Because we like spending time with you.”

“You guys know it’s not my birthday yet right,” Rumi said slowly.

“Exactly,” Zoey jumped in. “This isn’t a birthday thing. It’s a… warm-up dinner. A pre-party dinner. A—”

“A chance to celebrate you without it being about the date,” Mira cut in, more simply.

Rumi shifted uncomfortably. “You know I don’t really… do birthdays.”

“We know,” Mira said, voice even. “And we’re not throwing you a surprise party or making you wear a corny hat.”

Zoey mouthed “yet” at Mira, who simply ignored her.

“It’s just dinner,” Mira continued. “No pressure. Good food, maybe dessert if you want it. That’s all.”

Rumi studied them both, suspicion and something softer warring in her expression. “You’re being very… coordinated about this.”

Zoey grinned. “That’s because Mira made me rehearse.”

Mira didn’t even look embarrassed. “I wanted it to sound inviting, not like you were being ambushed.” There was a long pause. Rumi glanced down at her book, then back at them. “I guess… dinner would be nice.”

Zoey lit up instantly. “Yes! Perfect. tonight, seven o’clock. Wear something you can eat a lot of in.”

Rumi shook her head, but there was the smallest smile tugging at her mouth. “You two are ridiculous.”

“Correct,” Zoey said cheerfully. “And we’re taking you out anyway.”

-

The bedroom mirror stared back at her like a judge, unblinking and unforgiving. Rumi tugged at the hem of her shirt, a familiar nervous ritual, but today the shirt was soft and oversized—one of Zoey’s. They’d recently started sharing clothes with one another—and somehow it made her feel more safe.

She had spent the last hour pacing between her room and the bathroom, going through the same mental checklist:

What do I wear?

Do I look too much?

Do I look like I’m trying too hard?

Do I even want to go?

Her therapist’s words echoed softly in her head: “Try opening up, Rumi. Little steps. Let them see you.”

But opening up was hard when the weight of her own expectations sat like a stone in her chest. Her hair—usually tied into a thick braid felt heavy today. She reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and undid the strands one by one. The strands tumbled down past her shoulders, loose and wild, framing her face in a way that made her feel exposed, but also free.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and for the first time in years, she felt confident with how she looked. Maybe this night could be different. Maybe she could let herself be seen without fear.

Zoey was perched on the edge of the couch, half-watching a show but not really waiting for Rumi. Mira stood by the window, arms crossed, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly.

Then, the bedroom door creaked open.

Zoey’s breath caught. Mira’s jaw slackened.

There she was.

Rumi. Hair down. Soft waves catching the light from the hall.

She was wearing a simple mid rise jeans and a tight sleeved top with a slash in the middle, showing off just a hint of her toned stomach. It was nothing flashy, just something that hugged her in the right places and popped against her skin. 

Zoey’s mouth went dry. Mira’s eyes shone, a softness blooming in her usual sharp focus.

Zoey blinked, then sat up straighter, heart thudding so loud she was sure Rumi could hear it. Mira’s lips parted, but no words came out. And Zoey scrambled for one. “Wow.” It came out breathless.

Mira’s voice was low but steady. “You look… incredible.”

Rumi’s cheeks flushed a light pink, but her eyes searched theirs, looking for something beyond the obvious. Acceptance? Admiration? Something warmer?

Zoey smiled wide, standing up to close the distance. “You look like you just stepped out of heaven.”

Mira nodded, stepping forward as well, hands lightly brushing Rumi’s arm—gentle, affectionate. Zoey’s fingers twined with Mira’s for a brief second, then let go to reach for Rumi’s hand.

For a moment, the three of them just stood there—a silent, perfect triangle of connection. Then Zoey whispered, “Thank you for letting us see this side of you, it’s beautiful.”

Rumi swallowed, heart swelling and trembling all at once. She was scared, but it felt… good.

Mira smiled softly. “We’re proud of you.”

Zoey gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Ready to go?”

Rumi nodded, taking a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Yeah. I’m ready.”

-

The moment they stepped through the gleaming glass doors of the sushi restaurant, the city’s noise seemed to fade into a soft hum.

Rumi felt the plush weight of the atmosphere settle over her — the subtle clink of ceramic plates, the faint scent of seaweed and soy mingling with fresh flowers on every table. It was the kind of place she’d never imagined herself in, at least not like this; warm light painting her skin gold, the quiet confidence of two people who loved her, standing by her side.

Mira was already talking to the host, her voice low and assured, and Rumi caught the smile exchanged when they were led to a corner table, secluded but with a perfect view of the sushi chefs at work—their knives flashing and hands moving with practiced grace.

“Wow,” Rumi breathed, sliding into the seat between them, trying to keep her nerves tucked under a polite smile. Zoey plopped down opposite her, eyes sparkling. “You look like you belong here,” she whispered. “Like, some kind of mysterious art curator or a museum director who definitely owns at least three cats…and maybe a dragon.”

Rumi laughed softly, the tension loosening a little as the waiter approached, polished and attentive. Mira ordered with quiet precision—a selection of nigiri, sashimi, and a few rolls that sounded exotic enough to make Rumi’s eyes widen.

Her brows furrowed when she caught a glimpse at the prices and opened her mouth to ask if she should chip in, but before the words could form, she caught Zoey’s grin.

“Pft,” Zoey said, waving a dismissive hand like Mira was some kind of kpop star. “Don’t worry about it. She’s loaded.”

Rumi blinked, cheeks warming. “I’m not—”

“Nope, no debate,” Zoey said, shaking her head like she was trying to herd a stubborn cat. “You’re here to enjoy yourself. Mira’s got this.”

Mira raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached over to squeeze Rumi’s hand lightly. “It’s on me, Rumi. You don’t have to worry.”

Rumi’s throat tightened. She wanted to protest, but the sincerity in Mira’s eyes stopped her. She nodded, swallowing the lump in her chest.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m just not used to such special treatment.”

Zoey grinned, but Mira’s expression shifted instantly. Her brow furrowed as if Rumi had just personally insulted her honor.

“You mean dinner? This is what you call special treatment?” Mira said, voice mock-indignant. “Pft. Raise your standards. Who hurt you?”

Zoey burst out laughing, covering her mouth to stifle the sound. Rumi giggled too, feeling lighter than she had in days. The three of them settled deeper into their chairs, the sushi arriving in artful waves—a feast not just for the stomach, but for the soul.

And in that moment Rumi let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she deserved every bit of this. And these girls love her endlessly, and maybe she does too.

-

Zoey was already in full-on foodie mode, eyes wide as she tried everything on the table, humming happily with each bite. Mira was more reserved, savoring each piece slowly, but Rumi noticed the way her gaze kept flickering toward Rumi, like she was quietly proud to have brought her here.

Rumi felt the tension in her shoulders ease. The small noises, the gentle clatter of chopsticks, Zoey’s occasional satisfied sigh, the soft scrape of Mira’s plate against the table—all wove into a comforting background hum.

She reached for a piece of salmon nigiri, lifted it carefully with her chopsticks, and took a bite. The taste was fresh, delicate, with just a hint of wasabi’s heat at the back of her throat.

“Good?” Mira asked softly.

Rumi smiled. “Better than good.”

Zoey grinned. “You’re glowing.”

Rumi laughed, feeling warmth spread through her chest. “I think it’s the top.”

Zoey leaned forward suddenly, phone in hand. “Hold still.”

Before Rumi could protest, Zoey snapped a quick picture. “Perfect.”

Rumi glanced at the screen, cheeks flushing again. She looked… beautiful. Not just because of the hair or the top or even the lighting, but because of the way Mira and Zoey were looking at her—with pure, unfiltered admiration.

Mira’s smile softened. “We should frame that.”

Zoey nodded vigorously. “Definitely.”

Rumi felt a happy ache in her chest—the kind that comes from feeling seen and cherished all at once. And that’s exactly what the girls were doing—seeing and cherishing her.

-

The waiter returned with the cocktail menu—sleek, glossy, and filled with names that sounded like poetry and promises: The Midnight Sakura, Yuzu Breeze, Ginger Zen.

Zoey’s eyes lit up immediately. “Ooh! This place knows what’s up.” She scanned the list with a dramatic squint. “I’m definitely getting something with yuzu. Maybe the Yuzu Breeze or that Ginger Zen thing.”

Mira, ever the calm one, folded the menu neatly and placed it aside. “I’m sticking with the classics. A good old-fashioned martini will do.”

Rumi stared down at the menu, words swimming together. Cocktails felt like a different world—glittering, almost too decadent for someone like her. But if tonight was about stepping outside comfort zones… maybe she could try.

“I’ll have whatever Zoey gets,” she said quietly, feeling the warmth of their eyes on her.

Zoey shot her a surprised look, and Mira smiled softly with quiet admiration. “Good choice,” Zoey said with a grin, signaling the waiter.

As the drinks arrived, clinking softly against the lacquered table, Rumi lifted her glass hesitantly. The pale golden liquid smelled faintly of citrus and something spicy—unfamiliar, but intriguing.

“To surprises,” Zoey toasted, raising her glass with a sparkle in her eyes.

“To surprises,” Mira echoed, matching the gesture with her steady grace.

Rumi swallowed a lump of nerves and clinked her glass with theirs. The drink was sharp and sweet, with a bite that caught her off guard. She almost coughed, but both Mira and Zoey laughed gently, easing the moment as she continued to sip her drink.

They settled into an easy rhythm of sipping and talking—at first surface level chatter about piercings Zoey wanted, upcoming projects and the argument they overheard about a couple near the bar.  Zoey, ever the vibrant spark, leaned forward and said, “You know, Rumi, it’s crazy how much you do for us, and yet you never ask for anything.”

Rumi blinked, caught off guard. “I don’t… I don’t mind. I like taking care of you two.”

Mira’s eyes softened. “It’s not just about doing things. It’s about letting us be there for you too.”

Zoey nodded, lips quirking upward. “Yeah, we want to take care of you, Rumi. Not just the little stuff, but the big stuff. You don’t have to be the rock alll the time.”

Rumi looked down at her drink, fingers tracing the rim of the glass. She wanted to say more—wanted to tell them how tangled up her heart was, how much she felt in between them like an item hidden away on the secret menu. But the words never came.

“I guess…” she began slowly, “I guess sometimes, I’m afraid to ask.”

Zoey tilted her head, concern flickering behind her playful mask. “Afraid of what?”

“That maybe I don’t deserve it,” Rumi said quietly. “Or that I’m asking for too much.”

Mira reached out, her hand covering Rumi’s in a gentle clasp. “You deserve all of it. Every single bit of it.”

Rumi swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs. Zoey’s gaze flicked between Mira and Rumi—a silent conversation passing between them, one filled with warmth and protectiveness. But she was clueless about the deeper currents flowing beneath Rumi’s quiet smile.

Mira’s voice broke the silence. “You’ve been quieter than usual, Rumi. Everything okay?”

Rumi hesitated, then shook her head just a little. “It’s nothing.”

Zoey raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You know you can tell us anything, right?”

“I know,” Rumi said softly, and for a brief moment her eyes flickered with something almost vulnerable before she masked it with a small smile. “Really, it’s fine.”

Mira’s gaze lingered on her a beat longer, thoughtful and tender. “We care about you. More than you realize.” Mira half mumbled the last part.

Rumi’s breath hitched. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to hope that maybe the complicated ache in her chest wasn’t just hers alone.

The conversation shifted then, easing into lighter territory. Zoey launched into a ridiculous story about a disastrously failed attempt to cook ramyeon that ended with the kitchen smelling like burnt rubber for days.

Mira laughed softly, and Rumi felt the tension in her shoulders loosen again.

But even as they joked and teased, Rumi’s heart ached quietly. She loved them—both of them—and it was a secret she buried deep. Because how could they love her back when they already had each other?

Zoey reached for her glass again and sipped thoughtfully. “You ever think about… what if we weren’t just roommates? Like, what if there was more?”

Rumi blinked, caught off guard. She glanced at Mira, who looked away briefly before meeting her gaze again with steady calm.

“What do you mean?” Rumi asked carefully.

Zoey shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to care about more than one person. Like, really care.”

Mira’s eyes flickered with something unspoken, a tension beneath her composed exterior. “It’s complicated.”

Rumi’s throat tightened, every word feeling like it was pressed against her ribs.

“Yeah,” Zoey said softly. “Complicated, but… maybe worth it.”

Before Rumi could say anything Zoey pushed back from the table with a playful sigh, her eyes bright. “I’ll be right back—nature calls!” She gave them a wink and was gone, her footsteps fading down the hall.

The sudden silence felt heavy, almost loud. Rumi’s pulse picked up in that quiet gap, each breath drawing in the warm, dim light of the restaurant and the subtle scent of Mira’s perfume—something earthy and soft, with a hint of spice.

Mira’s gaze held Rumi’s like a tether, steady and unblinking. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world had melted away, leaving only the two of them suspended in time. Rumi swallowed, suddenly aware of every small detail: the gentle rise and fall of Mira’s chest, the faint shimmer of gold in her eyes, the way her fingers rested lightly on the table edge, almost hesitant, waiting.

“Rumi,” Mira’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, rough with something like longing and certainty all at once. “We want you.”

The words sent a sudden shock through Rumi’s chest. Her heart caught—rapid and unsteady, as if it had been holding its breath and now finally exhaled in one sharp rush. Mira shifted closer, her hand moving slowly, as if trying not to break the fragile moment. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind Rumi’s ear, fingers lingering to brush against the soft skin of her cheek.

Rumi’s eyes fluttered shut at the gentle touch, the warmth of Mira’s hand grounding her. It was terrifying and thrilling all at once. Their faces drew nearer, breaths mingling in the thin space between them. Mira’s gaze dropped briefly to Rumi’s lips, then back up, seeking permission without words.

And then, finally, their lips met.

The kiss was soft at first—tentative, exploring—like the first bloom of spring after a long, cold winter. It was light and feathered, gentle enough to make Rumi’s knees weak. But as the seconds stretched, it deepened, grew more urgent. Mira’s hand slid to the back of Rumi’s neck, fingers curling into the soft nape as she pulled Rumi closer, erasing the space between them.

Rumi’s own hands trembled, hesitating before finding Mira’s waist, holding on as if afraid to let go. Time seemed to slow, the noise and light and everything else falling away until it was just them—breathless, heartbeats syncing in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Mira’s lips parted to trail soft kisses down Rumi’s jawline, her voice a husky murmur in her ear.

“We want you, Rumi,” she breathed. “All of you.”

The confession sent a shiver racing down Rumi’s spine, her whole body tingling with a mixture of fear and yearning. But just as the world seemed to narrow to that single, breathtaking point, the sharp sound of approaching footsteps shattered the spell.

Zoey was returning, her voice humming softly as she rounded the corner.

Rumi’s eyes snapped open as Zoey’s footsteps drew closer, the moment shattering like fragile glass.

Without thinking, she pulled back sharply, placing both hands on Mira’s chest as if to physically create distance—to anchor herself from the dizzying surge of feelings crashing through her.

“Mira, wait,” Rumi whispered, voice trembling but firm.

Mira’s eyes widened, hurt flickering behind her calm. “Rumi?”

But Rumi was already spinning, her mind a whirlwind of panic and disbelief.

What just happened?

Did that really happen?

How could this be real?

They’re together. They have each other. And now… me?

Her breath came quick and shallow. The warmth in her chest twisted into something sharp, a cocktail of longing and fear and guilt she couldn’t untangle.

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered, voice cracking under the weight of her own confusion. “This isn’t— I mean, you’re together—”

Mira’s hand reached up, gently brushing against Rumi’s cheek. “Rumi, it’s okay. Just…just let me explain-“

“No,” Rumi cut her off, eyes wide and frantic. “I’m sorry. I-I need a minute.”

Her hands slid away, and she stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor as she moved toward the far side of the restaurant towards the bathroom, trying to put physical space between them to match the emotional one she felt inside.

Mira watched her go, lips parted as if to say more, but she didn’t follow her. Rumi’s heart pounded so loud she was sure it echoed in her ears, a chaotic drumbeat drowning out everything else.

She sank into an empty stall near the window, staring out at the glittering city lights, the world outside moving too fast, too bright.

What was she supposed to do now?

How could she make sense of a feeling this big, this impossible?

And what did it mean—if anything—that Mira had said they wanted her?

-

The moment Zoey rounded the corner, the lightness in her step faltered. The table was no longer the warm, cozy place it had been. Mira sat stiffly, eyes shadowed with worry. The empty chair where Rumi had been felt like a gaping wound in the soft glow of the restaurant’s lanterns.

Zoey slid back into her seat, eyebrows knitting immediately. “What happened?” she asked, voice low and sharp like a question already answered in her gut.

Mira’s fingers tightened around her arm where she’d been gripping. She hesitated, searching for the right words—words that could somehow explain what felt like a slow-motion disaster unfolding between them.

“Zoey…” Mira began, voice uneven. “Rumi and I… We almost kissed. Not now, but, you know, the day of the movies.” She swallowed hard. “And then… just now, when you left we actually kissed—for a while. Then she pushed me away.”

Zoey blinked, leaning back with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wait, you kissed her first? Bold move, Mira. Should’ve at least sent me a picture.” Mira cracked a small, tired smile, grateful for the sarcasm even if the weight in her chest didn’t lift. “Yeah, well, it was good—really good.” She glanced toward the empty booth, voice dropping to a whisper. “And now I’m worried I’ve ruined everything.”

Zoey sighed, dropping her gaze to the table. “You did kiss her first. I’m still mad about that.” She shook her head, then her tone softened. “But, Mira… you didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t make her push you away because you kissed her.” She leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Maybe Rumi’s just… scared. Confused.”

Mira’s eyes searched Zoey’s, desperation flaring. “But what if it’s too much? What if she thinks we’re… I don’t know, breaking things? I don’t want to hurt her or lose her.”

Zoey reached out, squeezing Mira’s hand gently. “Hey. Look at me.” She waited until Mira met her eyes again. “We’re not going to lose her. We both want this and it’s clear she does too—even if it’s messy and scary right now. And Rumi? She’s got layers of fear and doubt—more than we realize.”

Mira exhaled slowly, a fragile hope flickering inside. “I just want to be patient with her. I want to make sure she feels safe. But I don’t know how to do that without… pushing her away.”

Zoey gave her hand another reassuring squeeze. “You listen. You hold space. You remind her she’s loved. That’s all we can do right now.”

Zoey’s eyes kept darting down the corridor, waiting for Rumi’s return, while Mira’s mind replayed every detail of their last moments. Zoey’s sarcasm faded completely. “I know it’s hard. But if she pushed you away, maybe she needs space. Not because she doesn’t want this, but because it’s terrifying.”

Mira nodded slowly, fingers tightening again. “She’s so guarded, Zoey. I don’t want to scare her off, but I want her to know… we’re here. That we want her.”

Zoey reached into her purse, pulling out her phone. “I’m gonna text her. Just to check in.” She hesitated, then typed a quick message:

FAV ROOMIE😼❤️🫦

Hey, we’re here whenever you’re ready.

No rush.

Sent 9:01 pm

Mira gave a small smile, grateful for Zoey’s steady presence. “Thank you.”

“She’ll be okay. Just… let’s give her the time she needs.”

Mira reached over, squeezing Zoey’s hand back. “Together.”

Zoey smiled. “Together.”

-

Meanwhile, Rumi sank to the cold tile floor of the restaurant bathroom, the weight of the world settling on her shoulders with a heaviness she couldn’t shake. The harsh fluorescent lights above flickered faintly, casting sharp shadows across the cracked white walls. Her knees were pulled tightly against her chest, arms wrapped around them like a fragile shield, as tears slipped silently down her cheeks.

The steady drip of the faucet nearby mingled with the quiet hum of muffled voices and footsteps in the hall outside, but all Rumi could hear was the frantic pounding of her own heart. Her hands trembled as she dug into her purse, fishing out her phone with shaking fingers. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her top before unlocking the screen. She saw a notification come in from Zoey and her heart dropped, as she quickly x’d off the message without reading it and placed her phone on do not disturb.

Then, her thumb hovered for a long moment, wavering over names, until it settled on the one she needed.

Jinu.

The number dialed,  and the ringing echoed faintly in the room. Once, twice. Then a calm voice, soft and familiar, answered.

“Rumi?” Jinu’s voice was steady.

She couldn’t speak at first. The lump in her throat tightened until she was sure she might choke. Her chest heaved with shaky breaths, tears threatening to spill over again. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Then, with a small, broken sob, she finally found her voice. “Jinu… I don’t know what to do.” Her words tumbled out in a rush. “It’s… it’s too much. Mira kissed me. I didn’t expect it. I didn’t want it… or maybe I did, but then I pushed her away. And I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel. I’m scared, Jinu. I’m so scared.”

There was a pause, a deep breath on the other end. “Okay,” Jinu said quietly. “I’m coming over. Just stay where you are. I’ll be there in fifteenth minutes.”

Relief crashed through Rumi’s chest, washing over her in soothing waves. She wiped at her cheeks again, trying to steady her breathing as the chaos inside her began to settle just a little.

“I… I can’t stay here,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I don’t want to be here right now.” Her fingers gripped the phone tightly, pressing it against her ear as if it could shield her from everything.

“Hang on, Rumi. I’m on my way. You’re not alone.”

The line went quiet, and Rumi set the phone down on the edge of the sink, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but there was a flicker of something else beneath the pain.

Outside the restaurant’s back alley, the air was thick with the quiet buzz of the city at night—distant car horns, the faint murmur of footsteps on wet pavement, and the soft patter of a light drizzle beginning to fall.

Jinu stood near the dumpsters, leaning casually against the brick wall, phone pressed to his ear as he guided Rumi. “The emergency exit is just around the side. It’s usually unlocked this time of night. Walk slow and be careful.”

Rumi’s breath caught in her throat as she eased the door open, the harsh clang of the metal door muffled as she slipped through the narrow opening. Her heart pounded — not from fear, but from relief that no one inside would see her leave like this. Especially them.

Her footsteps echoed softly on the concrete as she hurried toward the faint outline of Jinu’s car parked just beyond the alley. The headlights were off, but she recognized the worn shape immediately.

“Hey,” Jinu greeted quietly as she reached him, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You okay?”

Rumi nodded, hands trembling as she closed the door behind her. “Better now.”

He started the engine gently, the hum of the car blending with the soft rain beginning to fall outside the windows. “You’re not alone,” Jinu said softly, eyes on the road but voice steady. “We’ll take this one step at a time.”

Rumi exhaled slowly, sinking into the seat as the car pulled away from the restaurant and into the night, the city lights flickering past like distant stars.

Chapter Text

Zoey tapped her nails against the table, eyes flicking toward the hallway to the bathrooms for what felt like the hundredth time. While Mira sat on the edge of her chair, fingers fiddling and twitching over her phone as she continuously glanced at it.

“How long has she been gone?” Zoey asked, pacing. She had been trying to keep her tone light for the first twenty minutes, but that was gone now.

Mira’s voice was tight. “I don’t know. I stopped checking the time after twenty, but…it’s been too long. She should’ve been back by now.”

Zoey stares toward the hallway. “She might just be…taking her time?” Even if she didn’t believe it at all herself. 

Mira didn’t move. She was just staring at her phone screen, her chat with Rumi still open, no typing indicators in sight. She’d texted twice, then once more. No reply.

They couldn’t wait anymore. So they got up and made their way towards the bathroom, taking deep breaths as they slowly pushed the door open—only to meet an elderly woman exiting one of the stalls.

“She’s not in there Mi,” Zoey said, biting her lip and twisting the hem of her shirt nervously, her voice low and laced with worry. Her fingers trembled slightly as her eyes danced around the room like she couldn’t quite settle.

Mira’s shoulders stiffened as her stomach sank. “She wouldn't just-“ She cut herself off, clenching her jaw.

“Where the hell would she go?” Zoey asked. “She doesn’t—she wouldn’t just walk home alone.”

But before Mira could offer a response, Zoey’s phone buzzed in her hand. A new text notification. She unlocked with such urgency that her thumb almost missed the sensor—only to see it was Jinu. A small sigh escaped her lips, disappointment flickering across her face that it wasn’t a certain purple haired girl. 

Leg Day Skipper😟

Rumi’s with me and she’s safe.

I’ll tell you both the details later, just know she’s okay.

Zoey showed the screen to Mira immediately. Mira exhaled shakily, relief and confusion warring in her chest. “She’s… with Jinu?” she repeated. “How?”

Zoey’s brows furrowed as anxiety and shame surged inside her, but she shoved it down, pushing past the terror of having possibly scared or hurt Rumi. She needed to stay steady— for her girlfriend’s sake. “That’s a fifteen-minute drive from here. When did she-“ Her words cut off as the timeline clicked into place perfectly.

Mira sank to the hallway floor, running a hand through her hair. “She left without saying anything. Without telling either of us.”

Zoey sat beside her. “We’ll figure it out together, remember? He said she’s safe, and… that’s what matters right now.”

But neither of them shared out loud what they were both thinking: safe or not, Rumi had just walked out of their lives for the night—maybe even for longer.

-

The ride to Jinu’s place was quiet, except for the occasional hum of the engine and the soft hiss of the AC. Rumi sat curled up into the passenger seat, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold her own pieces together. Jinu didn’t press her for details yet—he knew better. She wasn’t ready to talk, and if he tried to make her she’d just shut down.

When they finally pulled up into his dormitory, he parked and turned to her. “Ready to head up, tiger?” he asked gently.

Rumi hesitated, her fingers tightening on her sleeves. “…Yeah.” her voice was barely there.

The walk upstairs felt heavier than it should have. Each step was an effort, like her limbs were made of wet sand. By the time they reached his door, she felt like she’d been running a marathon with no water breaks.

Inside Jinu’s dorm smelled faintly of AXE spray and spicy noodles he’d made earlier that evening. It was warm in a way that wasn’t just about temperature—it felt safe. Messy, but safe.

“You can crash here tonight if you need,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “Couch or bed is yours. I think you should go for the bed though, Abby might be home later with some random girls—and I don’t need you getting caught up in an orgy.”

Rumi’s brows raised slightly, but she assured him she was fine with the couch. 

He frowned, studying her pale face and red rimmed eyes. “Rumi… you look like you’re about to collapse.”

She tried for a small smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, “I’ll be fine.”

Still, she wandered into his bedroom, not even noticing that her feet had carried her there. The bed was unmade, a soft tangle of blankets and pillows. She didn’t mean to sit down—but once she did, she found herself lying down as well. It just happened.

Jinu followed leaning in the doorway. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Mhm,” she mumbled, already sinking further down into the mattress. Her body felt too heavy to lift again. She told herself she’d only rest for a minute before going to the couch.

But the second her muscles fully relaxed, exhaustion pulled her under like a high wave.

-

Rumi blinked awake to the unfamiliar ceiling, the faint smell of cologne, and the distant clattering echoing from the kitchen. It took her a moment to remember where she was—Jinu’s apartment. She sat up slowly, the jarring memories of last night crashing back into her chest all at once.

The kiss. The bathroom. The way she’d got up and fled into Jinu’s car without a word to Mira or Zoey.

Her shoes were now neatly arranged at the door—Jinu’s doing no doubt. She’d been too exhausted that she hadn’t even managed to take them off before passing out on top of his blankets.

She passed out into the small living room, still wearing yesterday's clothes, hair cascading down her back in messy, tangled waves. Jinu was sitting cross-legged on the couch with two mugs of tea on the coffee table, typing something out on his phone. He looked up immediately.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he grinned, setting his phone down. Rumi sank into the other side of the couch avoiding the middle, which looked unusually damp. She tucked her knees in and let out a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sleep that long.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Jinu said simply. “You looked like you needed it.”

For a moment, they just sat there. Rumi’s hands curled into the sleeves of her top as the silence fell heavy. Jinu just tilted his head at her. “Okay, are you gonna tell me what happened, or am I supposed to guess?”

Rumi this question was coming, yet still—she froze and stared at the steam evaporating from her tea. “It’s… complicated.”

“Mm-hm,” Jinu said, not letting up. “Complicated’s my specialty. Spill.”

Her throat felt tight, but something about his voice—half teasing, half serious—made it easier to let the words out. And once she started, it all came tumbling.

She told him about the almost-kiss in the car with Mira, about the way she’d been trying to avoid her gaze ever since. About how guilty she felt every time she looked at Zoey, because Zoey didn’t know. Even when Mira had said “we want you” and that it felt like cheating no matter which way she spun it.

By the time she finished, her voice had gone hoarse and her hands were gripping her mug like it was the only thing holding her together.

Jinu let out a long, slow exhale. Then:

“Okay. First of all, Rumi, you’re not a homewrecker.”

“Yes, I-“

“No.” He pointed at her like she was about to murder his family. “You’re not. And let me just highlight something here—she didn’t say ‘I want you.’ She said ‘We want you.’ Is it not clicking?

Rumi furrowed her eyebrows. “…What?”

“Rumi. Babe. That’s not a cheating sentence,” he said, leaning forward. “That’s a ‘hey, we’ve been talking and we’re on the same page and now we’re letting you know’ sentence. That is a consensus sentence. You get me?”

Her cheeks warmed, and not from the tea. “But… that doesn’t make sense. Why would Zoey-“

“Why wouldn’t Zoey?” Jinu interrupted. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. And Mira—Rumi, Mira would set herself on fire if you asked her to. These people aren’t plotting behind each other’s backs. They’re trying to open the door for you, and you’re too busy standing on the porch convincing yourself you’re breaking in.”

Rumi stared down at her mug as the puzzle slowly pieces together in her head.

“And she’s not alone anymore. Not with me. Not with Zoey”

“We’ve got you, always.”

“You’re not alone,” Mira said, pressing a light kiss to Rumi’s temple. “Not even close.”

“You’re really pretty, you know that?”

“We’re already in it with you”

“You ever think about… what if we weren’t just roommates? Like, what if there was something more?”

“We want you, Rumi. All of you.”

Then Jinu’s comments:

“You live with your girlfriends”

“I’ll leave you to cuddle with your wives”

“They’re trying to open the door for you, and you’re too busy standing on the porch convincing yourself you’re breaking in.”

Oh fuck. The signs had been there this entire time, masked with simple touches, overly flirty compliments and constant reassurance. 

The jingle of a small bell snapped her out of her thoughts as Jinu’s face brightened, “Oh! You weren’t supposed to know yet but there’s something I’ve been keeping for you. Birthday-related.

“Jinu, I told you no-“

“Not from me,” he said, smirking. “From your girlfriends.”

For the first time, her heart stumbled over the word girlfriends. Jinu disappeared to the other side of the living room and came back carrying a small, wiggling ball of fur.

Rumi’s breath caught. It was a cat—tiny, soft, with slightly crossed eyes and a perpetually puzzled little face. “Meet Derpy,” he said, grinning. “They bought him for you. Said you once mentioned it during movie night that if you ever got a cat, you'd name it Derpy. Guess they were listening.”

Rumi’s hands flew to her mouth. The memory hit—curled on the couch between Mira and Zoey, laughing about the idea of adopting a cat. She’d said it like a throwaway joke—a random suggestion. But Zoey loved it and they remembered.

Her eyes stung before she could stop them. “They… they actually…”

“They did,” Jinu said softly, setting the kitten gently in her lap. “Happy late birthday, Rumi.”

The kitten blinked up at her with lopsided eyes, and something in her chest cracked wide open. She curled over the tiny warm body, her tears dampening its fur as she pressed her cheek to Derpy’s fur, the little kitten purring like a soft motor against her. She didn’t even realize she was swaying slightly until Jinu sat down beside her.

“They didn’t just remember,” he said. “They planned it. They bought the litter box, the food, the toys—Zoey tried to convince the lady at the shelter to throw in a year’s supply of treats.”

A weak laugh escaped Rumi, but it dissolved quickly into another wave of tears. “Why would they do all that if they’re already… with each other?”

“Because maybe they want you with them,” Jinu said gently. “And not in some side-chick, messy drama way. In a real way.”

Rumi shook her head, still stroking the kitten’s tiny back. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple. You’re the one making it complicated because you’re scared.”

Her lip trembled, and she hated how easily he could cut through her defenses. “And what if they don’t mean it like that? What if I’m reading too much into everything? I don’t think I could survive it if I was wrong.”

Jinu leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Rumi… I’ve seen how they look at you. Hell, I’ve seen how you all orbit each other like you’re in some romantic solar system. They’re not dangling you along for fun—they’re waiting for you to realize the door’s already open.”

She stayed quiet, his words bouncing around in her head like stubborn truths she didn’t want to believe yet. The kitten butted its head into her palm, meowing in a crooked little sound that made her laugh through her tears.

“You’re kind of a mess, Derpy,” she whispered to him. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Jinu’s phone buzzed on the coffee table, the screen lighting up with Mira’s name but he didn’t pick it up right away. “They’re worried sick, you know. Probably pacing holes into their floor.”

Rumi swallowed hard. “I don’t… I can’t face them right now.”

“Then you don’t have to,” he said simply. “Not until you’re ready. But you should also know that hiding forever isn’t an option.”

She looked down at Derpy again, her thumb stroking the kitten’s soft head. “Just… give me today.”

“Today,” Jinu agreed. “But tomorrow? You’re talking to them. No excuses.”

-

The apartment felt wrong without Rumi.

Zoey was sitting curled up on the couch in one of Mira’s hoodies, a blanket pooled around her shoulders even though the temperature wasn’t cold. She kept checking her phone like if she stared long enough, Rumi’s name would finally pop up with a little blue dot beside it.

“She should’ve texted,” Zoey muttered for the eighth time that morning, voice softer now. “Even just a ‘hey, I’m alive’ or a stupid cat meme. Just something.”

Mira was pacing the kitchen, pretending to be cleaning up breakfast but mostly just opening and closing the same cupboard. Her hair was down, loose and slightly messy, and she looked more tired than she’d ever care to admit.

“She’s with Jinu,” Mira reminded—half to Zoey, half to herself. “We know she’s safe. We know that.” But her grip on the counter tightened. “I just—what if she thinks we were pushing her? After the movie night. After what I said.”

Zoey blinked. “Pushing her?”

Mira slowed, hesitating like the words might betray her if she didn’t choose them carefully. “I told her…we wanted her. Not just me. Both of us. But maybe she thought I was—” She broke off, frustration tightening her shoulders. “God, I probably freaked her out.”

Zoey tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Mira…you’ve been overthinking this since last night.” She set her phone down and crossed her arms, her voice cracking slightly. 

Mira let out a sharp exhale. “You didn’t see her face, Zo. She looked like I’d just…dumped a bucket of ice on her. I don’t know if she froze because she didn’t want it, or because she did and didn’t know what to do about it.”

Zoey’s gaze flicked away, her stomach twisting. “Either way…she’s not here right now. And we don’t know what she’s thinking. Which is making me feel like I’m going insane.”

Zoey hesitated for a moment before shifting closer, slipping one arm around Mira’s waist and tucking her face against the taller girl’s shoulder. Mira’s body was tense at first, her arms crossed tight, but the warmth of Zoey’s touch seemed to melt some of that rigidity.

“I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Zoey whispered, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself just as much as Mira as she rubbed small circles against her girlfriend’s side.

Mira gave a faint nod, but her jaw stayed locked. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” she murmured.

Zoey swallowed, the ache in Mira’s voice cutting deeper than she expected. Her own throat tightened, and before she could stop it, a tear slid down her cheek and landed onto Mira’s shirt. She didn’t bother wiping it away—just held her closer, the silence between them heavy but somehow grounding.

-

Rumi sat cross-legged on Jinu’s bed, elbows resting on her knees, staring blankly at the far wall. Her mind wouldn’t quiet down—every memory from the past week ran on a loop, tangling into each other until she wasn’t sure what was real and what she was imagining.

A soft rumble pulled her out of the spiral. She glanced down to see Derpy, curled into the curve of her thigh, head nudging against her hand with a lazy insistence. She absentmindedly started petting him, and the little cat’s purr vibrated against her skin, deep and steady.

Her chest tightened. The sound was comforting, familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place—until she realized it reminded her of the girls. Zoey’s warm laugh. Mira’s quiet hums when she was cooking. The little ways they made her feel… safe. Wanted.

The guilt came in sharp after that.

With a sigh, she reached for her phone on the nightstand. She hadn’t looked at it since last night, afraid of what might be waiting for her.

The lock screen lit up—

4 missed calls from Zoey🐢🌈❤️

3 unread messages from Zoey🐢🌈❤️

5 unread messages from Mira❤️

Her thumb hovered over the screen, heart pounding. She knew she couldn’t avoid them forever. 

Zoey🐢🌈❤️

Hey, we’re here whenever you’re ready.  

No rush.  

yesterday at 9:01 pm

Hey rums I hope everything is ok… Just know we really miss you. Yes, we. Mira meant it when she said we.

3:47 am

Rumi swallowed hard? the words bluffing for a second as her chest squeezed. We miss you. Not I miss you. We. 

Her mind immediately went to that night—Mira’s comforting voice, the brush of her breath when she said we want you. She wanted to believe Zoey—really, she did. But the part of her that never quite felt enough whispered:

“Want you? Don’t be stupid. Besides, even if they meant it—do you really think they’d still want you after that performance?”

Derpy’s head nudged her wrist, a deep, steady purr vibrating against her skin. The warmth seeped in before she realized she was holding her breath. Rumi exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over Mira’s name next.

Mira❤️

I’m sorry if I made things weird Rumi. Just please text me when you can, I need to know you’re ok.

yesterday at 9:50pm

Please just… just send one text. Anything.

3:45 am

It doesn’t feel the same without you here. Rumi please come home

4:55 am

We should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve told you before I…

Please come home so we can explain. Zoey misses you—I miss you. We miss you Rumi

6:18 am

Her chest tightened. She could practically hear Mira’s voice in each line—low, steady but trembling at the edges like she was trying not to let it crack.

Rumi’s throat closed up as the words “we miss you” dug into her like a hook, and part of her wanted desperately to believe them. But the other part—the part with all the sharp edges and years of proof that closeness could turn into cruelty—whispered that maybe Mira was just saying what Zoey wanted her to. That, maybe “we” didn’t really mean her.

She set the phone down on the blanket beside her, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until her vision went starry. Derpy stirred beside her and gave a sleepy, rumbling purr, the vibration against her arm startling in its familiarity. The sound made her think of Mira’s laugh in the kitchen and Zoey’s humming when she was painting, and that familiar, warm ache of belonging twisted into guilt all over again.

-

Meanwhile, Jinu sat on the floor of his messy living room, the glow from his phone casting tired shadows across his face. He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight, as the call connected again. On the other end, Zoey and Mira’s voices cracked with worry, desperation bleeding through every word.

“Mira,” Jinu started, voice calm but firm, “I get how worried you are. I’m here, you’re here, and I’m trying to help. But I can’t make her do anything she doesn’t want to. She needs to be ready.”

“I know,” Mira’s voice broke. “But it’s been hours, Jinu. She’s not answering. No texts, no calls. Nothing. It’s like she’s shutting us out for good.”

Zoey’s tone sharpened. “This isn’t just about ‘being ready’ anymore. This is… this is about everything that’s been building up. The guilt, the fear. We’re terrified she’s breaking under it.”

Jinu’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—11 a.m. He rubbed his temples, frustration mixing with concern. “I wish there was a simple fix, but it’s complicated. You know her. She’s stubborn, and… scared.”

Mira’s voice softened again, “Jinu, you’ve known her longer than either of us. She trusts you. Definitely more than us right now.”

“Yeah” he said slowly, “That’s exactly why now, this falls on me.”

“Jinu, it’s time to put your head in the game,” Zoey’s voice rose. “Put your game-face on and get us our girl back.”

Jinu huffed out a laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Game-face, huh? What am I, Troy Bolton? Should I break into song while I’m at it?”

Zoey didn’t even crack a smile. “I’m dead serious. You don’t understand—Mira just got up and is in the kitchen right now making her third batch of kimchi jjigae in twelve hours. She’s cooking like the damn apocalypse is upon us, I swear, if this goes on any longer I will be exhaling gochuharu. ”

“Alright. No jokes. Got it.” He said as he passed a hand over his face. “You two are over there clearly spiraling, she’s in here pretending the world doesn’t exist… and I’m somehow in the middle.”

“Yeah because you’re the only one she might actually listen to right now,”

That hit him harder than he expected, his shoulders dropping a little. “Yeah. And if I screw it up, she’s going to sink deeper into that hole. No pressure right?”

Zoey leaned her lips closer to the microphone, her voice fierce pronouncing each syllable slowly. “Then don’t screw it up.”

Jinu let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “Okay, I'll try something. Might have to push her buttons a little, but if it gets her talking—even if that picture of me in Lotteria gets leaked—it’s better than this silence.

“Exactly, see, I knew you were useful.”

Jinu let out a scoff followed with an eye roll, “Alright alright, don’t forget who's calling the shots here.” 

Zoey simply let out a dry, humour-less laugh and said, “And you don’t forget who has that live picture of you getting your ass handed to you by Abby.”

His eyes lit up in horror as the line ended.

And here I was thinking she was the cute one. Damn, those space buns and micro bangs are misleading. 

-

Jinu tossed his phone onto the couch with a sigh, dragging a hand down his face before standing. His apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. He padded down the short hallway and stopped outside his closed bedroom door.

He knocked twice—not too soft, but also not too sharp. “Rumi. It’s me. Don’t make me stand out here like some desperate ex.”

Silence.

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I’m not here to lecture you, alright? You’ve probably given yourself enough lectures for the day. But I will say this—you’re going to drive yourself insane if you keep letting whatever’s in your head talk louder than the people who care about you.”

A soft rustle came from inside, but no reply.

“I get it,” he continued, voice gentler now. “You’re scared. You don’t wanna mess things up. But Rumi… you already have people willing to forgive you for things you haven’t even done yet. That’s rare. Don’t waste it by hiding.”

Still nothing. Jinu exhaled, straightening. “Here’s the deal. You don’t have to pour your soul out today. You don’t even have to like them in this moment. All you got to do is let them know you’re there. Open the door—metaphorically or literally—and let them in. That’s it. Take that one step.”

There was another long pause—long enough that Jinu considered walking away. Then, the quiet turn of the knob came.

The door eased open just enough for Rumi to peek through, eyes puffy but dry, hair loose and a little tangled like she’d been lying in bed all morning—Derpy perched in her arms.

Jinu arched a brow. “Wow. She emerges from the cave.”

Her lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. “Shut up.”

“Gladly,” he said, though the warmth in his voice gave him away. “So… are we doing the whole awkward stare thing, or do I get to hear you admit I’m right?”

She rolled her eyes, but it was missing the bite as usual. “You’re right.”

“Ah, music to my ears.” He tapped her shoulder gently. “Go text them. Let them know you’re on your way before you’re stuck eating kimchi jjigae for a week”

Rumi tilted her in confusion but didn’t bother asking as she put Derpy down and picked up her phone. She hesitated, but he didn’t push—just waited. 

Mira❤️

I'm sorry for taking this long but I’m ready to talk. I’ll be home in a bit and can you pass this on to Zoey as well please :)

sent 12:09 pm

She hit send and stared at the screen for a beat too long. Jinu caught it but didn’t comment, only gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before turning toward the living room.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll walk you down. That way, if you chicken out halfway, I can shove you into the car myself.”

She snorted softly, following him out. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Rumi glanced at her phone again as the door shut behind them, a small, nervous exhale slipping past her lips as she read the new notification on her screen. “Yeah… here I am.”

Chapter Text

The apartment felt smaller when it was this quiet.

Zoey sat curled up on one end of the couch, knee bouncing uncontrollably, while Mira sat at the other end, hunched forward, elbows on her knees. The muted TV flickered with a show neither of them were watching. Every few minutes, Mira would check her phone, thumb hovering over the screen like she could will a notification into existence.

Zoey gnawed at her bottom lip. “She’s been gone for hours.”

“I know.” Mira’s voice was tight, clipped, but her posterior betrayed her—fingers picking against her nails and eyes zoned in on the floor. She unlocked her phone again, scrolling through the same empty message thread. Then, suddenly, her eyes widened. “Zoey… she texted.”

Zoey sat up straighter, heart leaping. “What? What’d she say?”

Mira swallowed, reading aloud: “I'm sorry for taking this long but I’m ready to talk. I’ll be home in a bit and can you pass this on to Zoey as well please.’ And she put a smiley face.” Her voice cracked slightly at the end, relief and confusion tangled together.

Zoey blinked, leaning in to see for herself. “A smiley face?” Her voice pitched somewhere between cautious hope and utter disbelief. “Okay… that’s… wow. That’s good, right? That’s gotta be good.”

Mira didn’t answer—her eyes were still on the screen.

A faint thump echoed from outside the apartment door. Both their heads snapped toward the door. Before they could even form a reply to the text, the knob turned.

Rumi stepped inside, shifting awkwardly between her feet like she wasn’t sure if she should look at them or the floor. Behind her, Jinu followed in with a casual slouch, one arm cradling the sleeping cat and the other holding his keys and a tote bag stuffed with what looked like random essentials.

“Alright,” Jinu said, glancing between Mira and Zoey with a wry half-smile, “I’m gonna pretend the lesbian energy isn’t pulsating through the room right now, but you-” he said, pointing to Rumi. “Revil in it.”

Neither Mira nor Zoey laughed—they were too busy staring at Rumi as her cheeks reddened.

Jinu’s smile softened as he gave her hand a slight squeeze. “Good luck, kid.” Then, without waiting for an answer, he crossed the room, set the cat gently on the couch, and slipped out the door with a casual wave.

The apartment door clicked shut, leaving the three of them in heavy, humming silence.

Rumi stayed by the door for a beat too long, fingers curling into the sleeves of her hoodie. The quiet pressed in, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly too loud.

Zoey was the first to move, uncurling from the couch like she wasn’t sure whether to stand or sit back down. “You… came back.” Her voice was careful, like she was afraid of breaking something fragile.

Rumi gave a small shrug, eyes darting between them and the floor. “Jinu said I should,” she mumbled. “And—he’s right. It’s better than going ghost.”

Mira’s posture shifted—still tense, but her hands stopped fidgeting. “We weren’t sure if… if you’d want to.”

Zoey took a cautious step forward. “We just—” She hesitated, eyes searching Rumi’s face. “After what happened at dinner, we didn’t want you thinking…” She trailed off, like the words were too heavy to finish without permission.

“That you pity me?” Rumi’s voice cut in, soft but loaded. She finally looked at them, and there was a challenge in her eyes—daring them to confirm her worst fear.

Zoey blinked, taken aback. “No—God, no. That’s not—”

But Rumi shook her head, already retreating into herself. “You don’t have to… pretend. I’m used to people doing nice things because they feel bad for me. I can take it.”

The silence after that was suffocating, thick enough that the TV’s muted flicker felt intrusive.

Mira stood. It wasn’t abrupt or loud—just a slow, deliberate shift that somehow made the room feel smaller.

“Rumi,” she said, and there was nothing clipped or restrained in her voice now—just something low and certain. “Look at me.”

Rumi’s gaze flicked up for a fraction of a second, then dropped again. “Mira—”

“No,” Mira cut in, stepping forward until she was standing only a few feet away. “You don’t get to decide what we feel. You don’t get to tell us that this is pity when you didn’t even let us explain.”

Rumi’s throat bobbed. “Explain what? That you two thought it’d be funny to—”

“It wasn’t funny,” Zoey said quickly from behind her, her voice shaking but firm. 

Mira continued. “It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t some fucking charity work. That kiss—” she faltered, then pushed on, “—was because I wanted to. Because I have been wanting to. And I’m not sorry for wanting you Rumi.”

Rumi’s shoulders stiffened, but the trembling in her hands betrayed her. “You can’t mean that,” she said, almost whispering, like she was testing the words for cracks. “You don’t know how messed up I am. You don’t—”

Mira closed the space between them in two steps. “Don’t tell me what I don’t know.” Her voice was a quiet knife. “I’ve seen the way you shut down when someone gets too close. I’ve seen you disappear into yourself when you think no one’s watching. I’ve seen you fight to smile when you’re breaking apart inside.” She took another half-step, so close now Rumi could feel her breath. “And I still—gosh, Rumi—I still want you.”

Rumi blinked rapidly, as if trying to focus, but everything felt blurred at the edges. “Why? I’m—”

“Because you’re you,” Zoey’s voice came, gentler now but no less certain. She had moved off the couch too, circling around until she stood at Rumi’s other side. “Because you make me laugh until my cheeks hurt. Because you’re patient and understanding with me. Because you never make me feel like I’m too much or never enough. Because when you talk about things you love, your whole face lights up and I just—” Zoey’s voice cracked. “I just want to be around you all the time.”

Rumi shook her head like she could will the words away. “You’ll regret this. People always do.”

Mira’s hands twitched at her sides, like she was fighting the urge to reach out. “Do we look like we’re going anywhere?”

Rumi swallowed hard, the silence between them now thick with something heavier than fear—possibility.

“You don’t have to believe us tonight,” Zoey said softly, stepping close enough that her shoulder brushed Rumi’s. “But let us show you. Let us prove that we mean every damn word.”

Mira finally moved, lifting her hand to cup Rumi’s face. Her thumb grazed her cheekbone, the touch feather-light but grounding. “We don’t pity you,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We love you Rumi.”

The words seemed to punch the air out of Rumi’s lungs. She stared at Mira, wide-eyed, like she’d misheard. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Zoey’s hand found hers, warm and steady, anchoring her in place.

And Rumi? Rumi didn’t pull away.

Her breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary sound she seemed immediately ashamed of. She tried to turn away, but Mira’s hand stayed firm on her cheek—not forcing, just steady, like she was holding her in place so she wouldn’t drift back into the dark.

“You don’t have to say it back,” Mira murmured, eyes searching hers. “You don’t even have to understand it yet. Just… don’t run from it.”

Rumi’s throat felt tight, like the words inside were tangled in barbed wire. “I don’t know how,” she admitted, and her voice was so small it almost disappeared between them. “Every time someone says they care about me, I start counting the minutes until they don’t.”

Zoey’s grip on her hand tightened—not painfully, but enough to make her notice. “Then let us be the exception.” Her voice wavered, but there was no doubt in it. “Let us be the people who don’t leave. Please.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked between them—Zoey’s earnestness, Mira’s intensity—and something inside her cracked just enough for the truth to seep out.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I can be… enough for you. For both of you.”

Zoey took a shaky breath, smiling through the shine in her eyes. “You already are.”

Mira nodded once, the kind of nod that left no room for argument. “You’ve been enough from the start. We’re not asking you to change. We just want you to let us in.”

The room went still again, but it wasn’t the same suffocating stillness as before—it was thick with a quiet pull, the kind that made the air feel warmer, heavier. Rumi’s fingers twitched against Zoey’s hand. Her gaze lingered on their joined hands for a long moment before she finally, carefully, slid her other hand up to Mira’s wrist. She still looked uncertain, still scared—but she wasn’t backing away.

Mira’s breath caught, the softness in her eyes deepening as she leaned forward, just enough to press her forehead to Rumi’s. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Rumi’s pulse was loud in her ears. “Don’t.”

That was all it took. Mira’s lips found hers—not like the kiss at dinner, not rushed or charged with surprise, but slow and aching, a confession in itself. Rumi felt herself lean in before she could think better of it, her hands curling into Mira’s shirt as if she needed to hold on.

When they broke apart, Zoey was already there, her hand coming up to brush a stray strand of hair from Rumi’s face. Her touch was lighter than air, almost hesitant, but the look in her eyes was anything but.

“Can I?” she asked, and Rumi’s answer was another barely-there nod.

Zoey’s kiss was different—softer at first, a smile ghosting against Rumi’s mouth before it deepened, warm and coaxing. It left her feeling both lighter and more grounded, like she’d been given something she didn’t know she’d been reaching for.

When Zoey pulled back, she didn’t let go of Rumi’s hand. Mira’s palm still cupped her cheek. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Rumi didn’t feel caught between running and collapsing—she just… stayed.

A laugh—small, shaky, but real—escaped her before she could stop it. “You two are ridiculous,” she murmured, swiping at her damp cheeks.

“Probably,” Zoey said with a crooked grin. “But you’re stuck with us now.”

Mira’s lips curved into a rare, soft smile. “If you’ll have us.”

Rumi looked between them, the fear still there but no longer the loudest thing in her chest. She gave a slow nod, and it felt like stepping onto solid ground after years of treading water.

“Okay,” she said. Just one word, but it carried everything—reluctant hope, quiet surrender, and something that might, eventually, grow into belief.

Zoey let out a breath like she’d been holding it for hours. Mira’s thumb brushed once more over Rumi’s cheek before dropping to twine her fingers with the other two’s.

They stood there in a tangled, imperfect circle—hands clasped, shoulders brushing, foreheads touching in the center. And for a long, unbroken moment, none of them moved.

The apartment didn’t feel small anymore.

-

The three of them ended up in Rumi’s room, not because they planned it, but because none of them wanted to separate just yet.

Zoey sat at the foot of the bed, still holding Rumi’s hand like letting go would undo everything that just happened. Mira leaned back against the headboard beside Rumi, her arm draped loosely across Rumi’s shoulders—not possessive, but protective, her presence steady.

The silence was softer now. And for a while, Rumi just let herself exist in it—listening to Zoey’s breathing, feeling the slow rise and fall of Mira’s chest against her side. But eventually, the weight of the day pressed against her ribs, insistent.

She took a shaky breath. “There’s… something I need to tell you both.”

Mira’s head tilted toward her, attention immediate. Zoey’s thumb traced absent circles against the back of her hand.

“Remember when I went out with Celine?” The words felt heavier than she expected. “She—she took me somewhere. To see my mom’s grave.”

Zoey’s lips parted like she wanted to say something, but she stopped herself. Mira’s arm gave a gentle squeeze.

Rumi stared down at the blanket. “She told me… things I never knew. Things I still can’t quite wrap my head around.” Her throat worked, the next words trembling on the edge. “She told me she and my mom were in love.”

Zoey’s breath caught. Mira stayed perfectly still, her eyes on Rumi like she was afraid to miss a single flicker of expression.

“She said she was scared,” Rumi continued, voice thinning. “That she tried to erase the parts of me that reminded her of my mom because she didn’t know how to love them. My queerness. My… softness. My feelings.” Her hands twisted in her lap. “And all this time I thought it was because she hated me. But she was just… grieving. Wrongly and cruelly. But still grieving.”

Her voice cracked, but she kept going, almost as if she was afraid she’d lose her nerve if she stopped. “I told her I’m still angry. I am. But I… thanked her for finally telling me the truth.”

A tear slipped down her cheek before she realized she was crying. Mira’s thumb was there instantly, brushing it away with a tenderness that made her chest ache.

“Rumi,” Mira murmured, the name sounding like both a question and a promise.

“I didn’t realize,” Rumi whispered, “how much I needed to hear someone say they loved me and mean it. Even if it came from her. Even if it was late. It’s just… nice to know I wasn’t wrong all those years, that I didn’t make it up. That love was real.”

Zoey moved before she even thought about it, wrapping her arms around Rumi’s middle and pressing her face against her side. “You’ve always been real,” she said, voice muffled but fierce.

Mira leaned in closer until her forehead rested against the side of Rumi’s head. “And you’re loved now. Here. By us.”

Something in Rumi broke—not in the shattering way she was used to, but in the way a lock breaks when it finally gives. The dam she’d been holding all day gave way, and she turned into Mira’s shoulder, sobbing quietly as Zoey tightened her hold from the other side.

They stayed like that for a long time—no rush to pull apart, no need for more words. Just warmth, and the steady, grounding truth of two people holding her in place.

When her tears finally slowed, Rumi sniffled, a half-laugh escaping her. “I probably look a mess.”

Zoey pulled back just enough to look at her, smiling through her own glassy eyes. “You look like someone we’re ridiculously in love with.”

Mira’s hand slid down to clasp hers, fingers interlacing. “And someone we’re definitely not letting go.”

-

Sunlight spilled across the kitchen counter, catching on the faint steam rising from the mugs lined up beside the coffee maker. The smell of fried eggs and something sizzling in the pan filled the air.

Zoey had claimed breakfast duty—partly because she was feeling generous, partly because Mira was still recovering from her stress-cooking marathon yesterday, and partly because Rumi couldn’t cook for shit. She was in pajama shorts and an oversized tee, humming as she flipped pancakes. Mira leaned against the counter beside her, still in the tank top she’d slept in, sipping coffee like she was auditioning for a commercial, her expression somewhere between mildly amused and mildly grumpy.

Rumi padded into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep, wearing a hoodie she realized—too late—belonged to Mira. She froze in the doorway for a second, unsure if she should greet them like she usually did or if she was supposed to… do something else now.

Zoey spotted her first, her face lighting up. “Morning, sunshine!” she chirped, like nothing monumental had happened the night before. “Prepare for your last moments of culinary freedom before you’re forcefully indoctrinated into the kimchi jjigae lifestyle.”

Mira’s rolled eyes, gaze flicking over to her—lingering for a moment too long as a small smile appeared on her face. “Morning, do you want your tea?”

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” Rumi stepped forward, tucking her hands into the hoodie pocket, feeling weirdly like she was intruding on something even though it was her own kitchen. Mira got up and began preparing green tea in the special way Rumi liked.

“First pancake is a little lopsided, so obviously it’s yours. It’s an honour.” Zoey said, sliding a plate towards her.

Rumi huffed a laugh, sitting at the counter. “Lucky me.”

They chatted around her—Zoey talking about some ridiculous dream she had, Mira adding to it slightly, mostly just listening to every word Zoey said. But Rumi? She mostly picked at the edge of her pancake, sneaking glances between them. Every now and then, one of them would catch her eye and smile, and she’d smile back, but it still felt… different.

Not bad different. Just… new.

She realized, with a tiny jolt, that she didn’t know the “rules” anymore. Last night, she’d let them hold her, kiss her, tell her they loved her. And she’d let herself want it. But now—what was she supposed to do? Initiate a hug? Kiss them good morning? Or just sit here, eating slightly lopsided pancakes, and pretend she wasn’t hyper-aware of every brush of Zoey’s hand when she passed the syrup, every time Mira’s knee bumped hers under the counter.

Her phone buzzed against the counter. She glanced at the screen and hesitated before picking up.

“Hey,” she answered, using her pointer finger to put the phone on speaker as she took another bite of pancake.

“So how did it go? Please tell me you guys lezzed it out and all is good in the world.” 

Rumi’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink as she cleared her throat. “Yeah well, we worked it out—and um”

Then Mira’s gaze sharpened slightly as she set down Rumi’s tea. “By the way,” she said, too lightly to be truly casual, “thanks to certain people”—her eyes flicked to Rumi’s phone—“the birthday surprise we've been planning, got ruined.”

Zoey groaned, already looking annoyed. “I swear Rumi, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I had this whole plan—streamers, signs, the works.” And, as if on cue, Derpy decided to stroll into the living room like he owned the place.

“He was supposed to be a surprise,” Mira muttered, her tone half-annoyed but not unkind. “Your birthday’s in three days. Three days, Rumi. And Jinu fucked up.”

“Come onnn, I’m willing to bet a billion won that if the surprise didn’t get ruined—Rumi would’ve still been here. So. what I believe you were trying to say—is thank you.”

“Thank you!?” Zoey shouted.

“You’re welcome!” Jinu smirked.

 Mira was already glaring at the phone like it was physically present as Zoey mouthed, kill him.

“Give me that,” Mira said, snatching the phone. “Jinu. You dilapidated-soul-sucking-skinny-jean-wearing-butt-fucking-twink.

Zoey slapped her hand over mouth to stifle her laughter as Rumi’s eyes went wide.

“Hey! Do you have any idea how hard it is to hide a cat in a dorm that forbids pets? I bought scratching posts at midnight. Midnight! And this is the thanks I get? Anyway, congrats Rumi. You have a cat now and unlimited threeso-.”

Mira hung up on him.

Before Mira or Zoey could say anything Rumi set her fork down. “You guys… seriously. I don’t care that it wasn’t a surprise. The fact that you even—” She broke off, pressing her palms against her hoodie pocket. “You didn’t have to do any of this for me. But you did. And I… I really appreciate it.” Her voice went softer at the end.

Mira’s expression softened immediately, guilt flickering over her face. Zoey reached over and gave her knee a gentle squeeze under the counter.

“Hey,” Zoey said, quieter now. “You deserve nice things, Rumi. And cats. Obviously cats.”

Rumi smiled faintly, blinking quickly before the heat in her eyes could turn into actual tears. “Still… thank you. Both of you.”

And just like that, the mood shifted. Mira’s hand brushed against hers when she reached for the syrup, Zoey’s grin came back in full force, and for a moment, the tenseness of the morning lifted.

She could figure out the rest later—how to touch, how to look at each other, how to fit into this new thing between them. For now, there were pancakes, tea, and a very spoiled cat watching them from the hallway.

-

By evening, the apartment looked like a laundromat had exploded.

There were half-folded piles of shirts on the couch, socks hanging over chair backs like surrender flags, and Mira on her knees scrubbing a suspicious stain in the carpet like it had personally insulted her.

Zoey was supposed to be helping, but somewhere between sorting towels and folding T-shirts, she’d turned the mop into a microphone and was belting an on-key version of a k-pop song at full volume.

“Zoey,” Mira said without looking up, her voice dangerously calm, “if you’re not going to mop with that thing, I will find creative uses for it.”

Rumi, who sat with her legs crossed on the floor, folding laundry with the kind of neat precision you only saw in military ads, struggled to hide her smile.

“I am helping,” Zoey protested, twirling the mop like a baton. “Maybe not right now, but I wiped down all the appliances and successfully mopped the kitchen floor. And we’ve talked about you and your kink-”

Zoey froze mid-spin, eyes going wide. “Oh crap. Derpy’s stuff!”

Mira looked up finally, frowning. “What stuff?”

“His cleaning stuff!” Zoey gestured wildly. “Jinu never had a chance to buy it. You know, the wipes, the shampoo—basically everything that stops him from smelling like a wet sock.”

Mira groaned, rubbing her temple. “Of course. And now if I stop cleaning, I’ll lose momentum.” She thought for a second, then yanked her wallet from the counter and tossed Zoey her card. “You and Rumi can go on a store run. Now—please. Before I have to fumigate both of you.”

Zoey caught the card one-handed, grinning. “You got it, boss.”

Rumi looked up from her perfectly folded stack of shirts. “Wait, me?”

“Yes, you,” Mira said without looking back, already returning to her scrubbing. “Zoey will end up maxing my card out with stuff we don’t need unless lsomeone’s there to supervise.”

Zoey gasped. “Wow. The disrespect.”

Rumi just gave a light laugh and retreated to her room to change.

-

Zoey hoisted the canvas tote over her shoulder like it was a battle flag. “Alright, mission ‘Derpy Doesn’t Smell Like Feet’ is a go. Lead the way, Lieutenant Rumi.”

Rumi raised an eyebrow but let herself be nudged toward the door. “Lieutenant?” she muttered, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

“You’re in charge of the list,” Zoey said, spinning the corner of the shopping pad between her fingers. “If we forget anything, it’s on you.”

Rumi’s hands tightened around the straps of her hoodie. She had never been “in charge” of anything fun with Zoey before, and the flutter in her stomach was doing triple saltos. “Fine,” she said, trying to sound serious, “but if we get lost, it’s your fault.”

Zoey tilted her head, her grin wide and contagious. “Oh no, Lieutenant. I never get lost. I navigate by pure instinct and superior charm.” She winked, and Rumi had to fight the urge to not continue gaze at her.

The walk down the street was brisk, the sun hung a little low in the sky but the air was still crisp. Zoey chatted nonstop about the absurdities of today's  laundry disaster, the way Mira had scowled at a sock like it was a personal enemy, and how much of a clean freak she is sometimes.

Rumi laughed, despite herself. The sound felt light in her chest, a little like sunshine breaking through clouds she hadn’t realized were there.

“You know,” she said quietly, “I didn’t think… I mean, last night was weird. But I feel… okay now.”

Zoey glanced at her, noticing the unusual softness in her tone. Her grin softened too, becoming that unguarded smile Rumi always melted at. “Okay?” she echoed. “Okay how? Good okay? Confused okay? Heart-thumping weird okay?”

Rumi froze, then let out a soft laugh. “Probably all of the above.”

Zoey slowed down, closing the space between them. “Good,” she said. Her voice dropped, almost conspiratorial. “Because I like all of those okays. Especially when I’m causing at least one of them.”

Rumi’s cheeks warmed. “Zoey…”

But Zoey was already grabbing her hand gently, guiding her across the street. The touch was brief, electric, and it sent that strange, fluttering heat straight to Rumi’s chest.

They reached the corner store and started grabbing the essentials: wipes, shampoo, a little detangling spray for Derpy’s fur. Zoey couldn’t resist tossing in a few snacks too—a bag of gummy worms and some curly chips—because apparently all errands were better with snacks.

As they walked back outside, the sky had shifted. The clouds were low and grey, pressing in close like they were about to spill everything at once. Zoey tilted her head up dramatically. “Uh-oh. I think the sky is mad we didn’t buy snacks for it.”

Before Rumi could respond, the first drops hit, sharp and cold. Then more, until it was a proper downpour. Zoey laughed, spinning in the rain like a little kid. “RUN!” she yelled. “RAIN RACE!”

Rumi froze for a second, soaked by surprise, then yelled after her, “Zoey! Wait—”

But she couldn’t resist. Her hoodie sticking to her, hair damp and messy, she sprinted after Zoey, the wet asphalt slick under her sneakers. Every time their shoulders brushed, a jolt of warmth shot straight to her chest. Rumi could feel the tension in her body loosening, her laugh coming freely and completely.

Zoey grabbed Rumi’s wrist mid-run, tugging her close for a heartbeat to keep her from slipping. Rumi’s heart skipped. Zoey’s fingers lingered a second longer than necessary, and for a breathless moment, the world narrowed to the two of them, soaked and laughing under the heavy rain.

Zoey’s grin softened, a little more serious now. “You’re faster than you look,” she said, tilting her head so their foreheads almost touched.

Rumi swallowed, breath coming in quick little hitches. “You’re… crazy.”

“Maybe,” Zoey admitted, voice low. “But fun. And you’re… fun too. I like that about you.”

Rumi’s chest tightened at the words. She looked up at her, eyes wide, and for a moment everything froze—the rain, the noise, the city blurring around them. Zoey was smiling, open and unguarded, and Rumi felt like the only thing she’d ever wanted to do in that moment was close the distance.

“Zoey…” she whispered, but the sound got lost in the rain.

Zoey leaned a fraction closer, and the world shrank. The noise of the rain, the slick pavement, even the distant city hum all vanished, leaving only the steady thrum of their hearts and the wild beat of adrenaline. Her fingers tightened slightly around Rumi’s wrist, then slid up, brushing against the sleeve of her hoodie.

Rumi’s breath hitched. Her chest heaved, the tension of the morning, the confusion of last night, and the sheer joy of being near Zoey all colliding into one jagged, urgent pulse. She looked up, meeting Zoey’s eyes—a mixture of warmth and something deeper—and before she could second guess herself, Zoey closed the gap.

Their lips met, wet and soft, tasting faintly of rain and adrenaline. The kiss was sudden but not rushed, urgent but gentle, a collision of laughter, comfort, and longing all at once. Rumi’s arms lifted on instinct, curling around Zoey’s neck as if she could anchor herself there forever. Zoey’s hands tangled in Rumi’s damp hair, holding her close, pouring everything she felt into that single, dripping kiss.

They broke apart only when the cold rain reminded them that the world still existed, but their foreheads stayed pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts racing. Rumi laughed softly, a shuddering, happy, disbelief kind of laugh.

Zoey grinned, brushing a soaked strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “Yeah,” she said, voice low and teasing, “I’d call that a win.”

Rumi’s chest was still tight with warmth, a little breathless, and she couldn’t help but whisper, “Yeah… a really good win.”

The rain soaked them through, their clothes sticking, hair plastered, and every inch of their skin buzzing. 

Then Zoey grinned, eyes sparkling mischievously through the wet strands of hair plastered to her face. “Hold on,” she said, leaning back just enough to give Rumi a little space, her hands still resting gently on her shoulders.

Before Rumi could ask what she meant, Zoey leaned in again, catching her by surprise. This time, the kiss was slower, softer—a little sweeter, a little hungrier, a little more deliberate. Rumi’s hands flew to Zoey’s sides, pulling her closer instinctively. The rain splashed around them, but neither of them cared.

Zoey pulled back just a fraction, resting her forehead against Rumi’s, voice low and teasing. “That’s for Mira getting to kiss you first,” she murmured, and then, almost like an afterthought, grinned wider, “twice.”

Rumi blinked, stunned for a moment, and then laughter bubbled out of her—wet, shaky, and utterly joyous. “Zoey…” she breathed, shaking her head, “you’re ridiculous.”

Zoey shrugged, still holding her close. “Maybe. But you like it.”

Rumi’s chest tightened, warmth spreading through her in a way that made the rain feel like a halo. She shook her head again, smiling through the disbelief and the thrill of the moment. “I… yeah. I do.”

Zoey leaned in one last time, pressing her lips gently to Rumi’s forehead. “Good,” she whispered, as though it were a promise. “Because I plan on doing this a lot.”

And for the first time that day, Rumi didn’t worry about rules or timing or how to act. She just let herself be with Zoey—wild, soaked, laughing, and entirely, irrevocably present.

*extra*

The little bell above the pet store door jingled as Zoey and Mira stepped inside, still riding the quiet buzz of their earlier plans. Mira pulled the printout from her back pocket, the order confirmation for the fluffy tabby they’d both been excited to surprise Rumi with.

But the employee behind the counter gave them an apologetic look before Mira even reached the register.

“I’m really sorry,” she began, “but the kitten you ordered was an error on the site. She was adopted weeks ago—the page just never updated.”

Zoey’s face fell. “Wait—so… we don’t have a cat?”

Mira’s jaw tightened. “Apparently not,” she muttered, sliding the paper back into her pocket.

The employee, clearly bracing for disappointment, added, “You’re welcome to look around though. We still have a few cats available.”

So they did. Row by row, cage by cage, they looked—but nothing felt right. Some cats turned away entirely. Some yowled and hissed when approached. And some… well, Mira thought they were cute enough, but Zoey’s quiet shake of the head every time was a loud enough answer.

“This is supposed to be for Rumi,” Zoey said softly after the third lap around the room. “We can’t just pick one that doesn’t feel like… hers.”

Mira firmly nodded, chewing her lip. She didn’t want to settle either.

They were just about to call it quits when a flash of movement caught Zoey’s eye near the back door. Two employees were carrying a carrier between them, murmuring quietly to each other. Inside was a squat, grey, flat-faced cat with deep amber eyes that were slightly lopsided. 

Zoey stopped dead in her tracks. “Where are they taking that one?” she asked.

One of the employees hesitated, glancing at her. “This guy’s… not adoptable. Been here too long, nobody wants him. He’s… scheduled.”

“Scheduled?” Mira’s voice was sharp now.

The other worker shifted uncomfortably. “We don’t have the resources for long-term care. He’s—”

“Give him to us.” She didn’t even let her finish.

The two employees exchanged a look. “You don’t understand—he’s special, a little grumpy, and—”

Zoey crouched down, peering into the carrier. The cat just stared back at her, silent and unblinking. Not scared exactly, just resigned. Her heart squeezed. “He’s perfect,” she said, glancing up at Mira.

Mira met her eyes for a beat and nodded once, decisive. “We’ll take him.”

The handover was quick after that, papers signed, a box of food and a little toy mouse tossed in for free. The cat didn’t make a sound the entire time, just sat there in his carrier like he couldn’t believe it.

As they walked out into the sunlight, Zoey tilted the carrier toward herself. “You hear that, buddy? You’re coming home with us. No more cages.”

Mira glanced down at the amber eyes peeking through the bars and then at Zoey, her mouth softening into the faintest smile. “Guess he just needed the right people to show up.”

Zoey smiled back. “Yeah. I know the feeling.”

Chapter Text

The hum of the shower was faint through the walls, a soft backdrop to the quiet of the apartment. Mira sat back against the couch, long legs stretched out, absentmindedly scratching behind Derpy’s ears. The cat was purring so loudly it almost drowned out Zoey’s restless tapping—her knee bouncing, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her tank top.

“Okay,” Zoey whispered, leaning closer like Rumi could somehow hear them through the water. “Her birthday is in two days. Two. Days. And she hasn’t said a single thing.”

Mira’s mouth twitched, eyes still on the cat. “Of course she hasn’t. That’s… Rumi.”

Zoey huffed. “Yeah, but like—don’t you think that’s kinda sad? Like, birthdays are supposed to be… I don’t know, special.” She chewed her lip, glancing toward the bathroom. “I can’t tell if she doesn’t care or if she just… doesn’t wanna make a big deal.”

Mira’s hand stilled against Derpy’s fur. She thought about all the little things she’d noticed: the way Rumi always brushed off compliments, how she ducked out of attention like it was a spotlight she didn’t ask for. Her jaw tightened. “It’s not that she doesn’t care. I think it’s that maybe no one ever made her feel like she was worth celebrating.”

That landed heavy, and for a second Zoey just stared at her. Then she reached out and nudged Mira’s arm gently, voice softer now. “So we change that.”

Mira looked at her , really looked, and Zoey was smiling the kind of smile that made it impossible to even think to argue. Her bright, determined, we’re doing this no matter what smile. Mira exhaled, shaking her head but already caving. “Got any ideas?”

Zoey sat up straighter, lowering her voice. “Well… I do have one idea.”

Mira arched an eyebrow in response. “Just one?”

“Actually fifty seven, but let’s start with my favourite. We throw her a surprise party! Balloons, cake, decorations—the whole shebang. Like a proper, ‘you’re loved and you matter’ type of thing.”

Mira smiled affectionately and propped her head on her wrist. “And when she inevitably gets shy and overwhelmed?”

“Then we wrap her in a blanket burrito and feed her cake until she smiles,” Zoey said simply, like it was the most obvious plan in the world.

Mira chuckled despite herself. She rubbed a hand over her face, trying to imagine Rumi’s reaction. The shy little half-smile, the way she’d tuck her hair behind her ear when she didn’t know what to do with her hands. The thought stirred something warm in her chest. “Alright. But we need to do it right. Not just random party store junk. We need to do something that feels like her.”

“Exactly.” Zoey grinned, but then faltered, tapping her chin. “Except… what is her, exactly? Like, I know she likes purple and poetry and old movies, but that’s not enough for a whole birthday vibe.”

Mira frowned in agreement, her thumb stroking slowly against Derpy’s fur as she drifted in thought. “She’s not gonna tell us herself.”

“Which means…” Zoey trailed off, eyes narrowing mischievously.

Mira sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Zoey.”

“Jinu,” Zoey whispered dramatically, like the name itself was a revelation. “He’ll know. He’s been her bestie since—forever. He’s gotta have the tea.”

Mira tilted her head, considering. It wasn’t a bad idea. Jinu was probably the only person Rumi confided in before them. If anyone knew the kind of birthday she secretly wanted, it’d be him.

Still, Mira frowned. “You think he’ll actually tell us? Some of it may be private”

Zoey scoffed, waving a hand. “Please. If it’s for Rumi? He’ll spill in like, five seconds. I’ll bet you ice cream on it.”

Mira smirked faintly, shaking her head at Zoey’s confidence. “Fine. But we do it discreetly. If she even suspects we’re planning something…”

Zoey leaned back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Yeah yeah, she’ll vanish into thin air before we even say ‘surprise.’”

For a moment, the two of them just sat there, listening to the shower still running, Derpy purring between them. Then Zoey’s voice softened again, her eyes tracing the closed bathroom door. “She deserves it, though. Don’t you think? A day that’s just… hers.”

Mira followed her gaze, her chest tightening with something equal parts protective and tender. She thought of the way Rumi always took up as little space as possible, like apologizing for existing. Mira wanted to give her something that told her—loudly, clearly—that she didn’t need to.

“She deserves everything,” Mira said quietly, and Zoey smiled because she knew that meant Mira was all in.

-

The bathroom door creaked open a few minutes later, and Rumi padded out in a soft, oversized sweater and jeans, hair damp and curling faintly at the ends. She had her tote bag slung over one shoulder, the strap twisted like she’d fumbled with it too many times.

“Hey,” she said, voice careful, almost tentative—as if she didn’t want to disturb whatever Zoey and Mira were doing, even though they were just slouched on the couch with Derpy sprawled between them.

“Hey, Ru.” Zoey perked up immediately, sitting cross-legged. “You heading out?”

Rumi nodded, adjusting her bag strap again. “Yeah. My—um… therapy appointment. I’ll be back later.”

Something about the way she hovered near the doorframe gave her away. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t late. She just… didn’t know how to do this part.

Mira’s sharp eyes caught it first—the faint way Rumi bit her lip, fingers worrying the hem of her sweater. Mira knew that look. Knew it meant, I want something but I don’t know if I’m allowed to ask for it.

Rumi opened her mouth, then shut it again, shifting her weight.

Zoey tilted her head. “What?”

“Nothing,” Rumi said quickly. Too quickly.

And that was the problem—nothing was always something with Rumi.

Mira leaned forward and said it plain, voice low but gentle. “You can kiss us goodbye, y’know.”

Rumi swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her bag. For a second she just stood there, frozen. Then, tentatively, she stepped closer. Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure they could hear it.

Zoey leaned in first, her grin encouraging but her eyes serious, giving Rumi an easy out if she wanted it. But Rumi didn’t back away. She bent slightly, closed her eyes, and pressed her lips to Zoey’s. Just a brush, light as a feather, before she quickly pulled back.

Zoey’s cheeks lit up pink, but her grin spread wide. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Rumi’s lips tingled, and before she could spiral, Mira stood, tall and patient, holding out a steady hand for her. Rumi let herself be guided in, Mira’s large palm warm at the small of her back. When Mira kissed her, it was slower, steadier, a lingering press that sent a shiver crawling up Rumi’s spine.

When they pulled away, Rumi’s face was flaming, her eyes darting between the two of them like she wasn’t sure if she was still breathing. “O-okay,” she whispered, almost squeaky. “Um. Bye.”

Zoey and Mira watched as she practically fled out the door, sweater sleeves pulled even lower over her hands, head ducked. The door clicked shut behind her, and the apartment was quiet again—except for the shared exhale they both let out at the same time.

Zoey slumped back against the couch, throwing her hands dramatically over her face. “Oh my god. Did you see her? She looked like she was about to combust.”

Mira chuckled low in her chest, rubbing her thumb against her knee. “She’s just nervous. This is all new for her.”

“I know,” Zoey groaned, peeking through her fingers, “but she’s so freaking cute about it, I can’t.”

Derpy meowed like he was agreeing.

Mira reached for her phone. “Come on. While she’s out, we should call Jinu.”

Zoey perked up immediately, leaning in. “Right—the plan.”

Mira smirked as she scrolled through her contacts, already hitting dial. “Exactly. Let’s figure out how to make her first birthday with us unforgettable.”

The line barely rang once before Jinu picked up, his voice immediately unimpressed.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite people… NOT”

Zoey grinned. “Nice to see you too Jinu.”

Mira, sitting cross-legged on the couch with Derpy now sprawled across her thigh, kept her tone even. “We need your help.”

“Yeah after what you called me the last time we talked? I don’t think so” 

Zoey glared at Mira’s phone. “Don’t forget about the live pho-“

“Fuck okay, what do you want you con artist and con artist’s girlfriend.” he interrupted her.

She smiled and leaned closer to Mira’s phone camera, lowering her voice like Rumi might somehow hear them from across town. “Her birthday’s in two days. And… we wanna throw her a surprise.”

Jinu blinked at them, then leaned back in his chair. “Wait. You two are actually planning something for her?”

Mira’s brow furrowed as she took offense. “Of course we are. Why wouldn’t we?”

There was a pause. Then Jinu sighed, his tone dropping softer. “Because she’s never really had one.”

Zoey’s smile faltered. “What do you mean ‘never’?”

“You’ve both met Celine,” Jinu said flatly. “She’d forget, or dismiss it, or say she was too busy. Sometimes she’d throw together a dinner last minute, but it wasn’t for Rumi—it was for herself, so she could show off. Rumi would pretend she didn’t care, but…”

He shook his head, lips pressing thin. “She cared. She always cared.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. Zoey’s chest ached.

“Through the years,” Jinu went on, “she used to tell me little things she wanted. Not big parties—Rumi’s not like that. But she wanted to try stuff. To actually celebrate.”

Zoey leaned forward, eyes wide. “Like what?”

Jinu’s face softened, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. “She wanted to go bowling once. Said she always thought it looked fun, even though she’s terrible at sports. Another year she mentioned karaoke—she pretended it was a joke, but I could tell she wanted it for real. She talked about cake, too. Not just any cake—she wanted a ridiculous one. Like, sprinkles everywhere, candles, the whole nine yards. Something loud and messy and… happy.”

Zoey’s heart squeezed. She could practically picture it: Rumi shyly blowing out candles, embarrassed by the attention but secretly glowing.

“And last year,” Jinu added, his voice quieter now, “she said she wanted to go to an amusement park. She’d been scrolling online, looking at rides and funnel cakes and fireworks. She didn’t even want the big roller coasters—just the ferris wheel, the bumper cars, the silly games where you win stuffed animals. She never went. Celine told her it was childish, a waste of time and money.”

Mira’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “She deserves all of that. Every single one.”

Zoey nodded fiercely. “Then we’re doing it. The whole list. Bowling, karaoke, amusement park, and the biggest, stupidest cake ever.”

Jinu laughed softly, but there was something hidden behind it—something he refused to voice. “She’s gonna cry. But in a good way.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, she totally is. We’re making this the best birthday she’s ever had.”

Mira tilted her head toward the screen, voice steady. “Jinu… thank you. For telling us.”

He waved a hand. “Don’t thank me. Just… make sure she knows she’s worth celebrating. She’s wanted this for so long, even if she’ll never say it out loud.”

Zoey pressed her lips together, determination burning in her chest. “She will this year. I promise.”

They hung up a few minutes later, but the room felt charged with new energy. Mira leaned back against the couch, already thinking through logistics. Zoey sat cross-legged, clutching Derpy to her chest like a fluffy conspirator.

“This is gonna be epic,” Zoey whispered, eyes shining.

Mira smirked, her voice low and certain. “It’s going to be perfect. For her.”

-

Rumi sat with her hands knotted in her lap, thumbs pressing together so hard they ached. The office felt the same as last week—soft yellow walls, the faint scent of coffee, the low hum of an air conditioner that was probably older than she was—but her body felt completely different inside of it. Last time, she had been nervous, jittery, convinced she’d run out of words within five minutes. Now, after everything that had happened in the last few days, she almost felt like she had too many words. They pushed against her ribs, fighting for a way out.

Bobby settled into his chair across from her, notepad balanced on his knee, though she noticed he hadn’t written a single thing down yet. He was good at that—at just being ** there, waiting until she filled the silence on her own.

“You came back,” he said warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “That’s always a good sign.”

Rumi let out a shaky laugh. “Guess that means you didn’t scare me off.” she joked.

“I do my best,” Bobby said. “So tell me, how are you doing since last time?”

Rumi bit her lip, staring down at her knees. The urge to deflect was strong, but she remembered his advice from the first session—be honest, even if it feels messy. So she forced herself to let the words out.

“Confused,” she admitted. “And… tired. My brain hasn’t shut up in days.”

“Confused about…?” Bobby tilted his head.

“My roommates,” she said quietly, almost like she was confessing a crime. “We—something happened. I mean… they said they have feelings for me. Both of them. And I—I feel the same way, but—”

Her voice cracked, and she covered her face with her hands. She felt like an idiot saying it out loud, like she was describing someone else’s life.

Bobby didn’t rush in. He let the silence sit a beat before he spoke. “That sounds… pretty big. A lot to hold.”

Rumi peeked at him between her fingers. “Big is one word for it.”

“What’s the hardest part about it right now?”

She dropped her hands into her lap again. “Believing it. I mean, I keep thinking there’s no way they actually want me. That maybe they’re just being… nice. Or that they’ll realize later they made a mistake.”

Bobby leaned back slightly, studying her. “You doubt that their feelings are real.”

“I doubt everything,” Rumi said, the words tumbling out faster now. “They’re amazing. They’re beautiful, they’re smart, they’re together. And me? I’m… broken. I have scars, I’m—” Her throat closed up, but she forced the words out anyway. “—too much.”

Bobby’s expression softened. “Too much for who exactly?”

Rumi blinked. “What?”

“You said you’re too much. Who told you that?”

The question landed like a stone in her chest. Her mind flicked back to Maya in the locker room, to Celine’s cold dismissals year after year, to the mirror on nights she hated herself. “People,” she said finally. “People I trusted.”

“And you believed them,” Bobby said gently.

She looked down. “Didn’t I have to?”

“No,” Bobby said firmly. His voice wasn’t sharp, but it was steady in a way that made her meet his eyes. “You didn’t. And here’s the thing. The people you’re describing—the ones who hurt you, dismissed you, walked away from you—they don’t get to be the authority on your worth. But right now, it sounds like they’re still living rent-free in your head.”

Her eyes burned. She blinked hard, refusing to let the tears spill.

“You said your roommates are amazing,” Bobby continued. “Have they done anything to suggest that what they feel for you isn’t real?”

“No,” Rumi whispered. “They’ve been… patient. And kind. And they kissed me, and it wasn’t… it didn’t feel like pity. It felt… real.”

Bobby leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “Sometimes, Rumi, the hardest thing isn’t falling in love. It’s letting yourself believe that you’re lovable.”

Her chest clenched so tight it hurt. She curled her fingers against her knees, trying to breathe past the ache in her throat.

“And you are,” Bobby added. “You are lovable. The scars, the doubts, the messy past—you bring all of that into the room, and they still chose you. That means something. That’s not pity. That’s love.”

The words cracked something inside her. For a long moment, she just sat there, eyes blurring, throat thick with emotion. She hated crying in front of people, but Bobby didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. He just sat there, steady, letting her unravel.

When she finally swiped at her cheeks, embarrassed, Bobby gave her a small smile. “See? Still here. You didn’t scare me off either.”

Rumi laughed through the tears, the sound broken but real. “You’re annoyingly good at this.”

“I’ve been told,” Bobby said. Then he leaned back, giving her space again. “So. What would it look like if you started believing them? Your roommates. What would change for you?”

She thought about Mira’s steady gaze, about Zoey’s bright smile. About how safe it felt when they kissed her goodnight, even if it terrified her. “I think… I’d stop hesitating so much. I wouldn’t… second guess every little thing. I’d let myself be happy.”

Bobby nodded slowly. “Then maybe that’s your homework for this week. Not fixing everything at once—not silencing the doubts forever—but trying, even just for a moment, to let yourself believe them. To let yourself lean into the possibility that they’re not lying. They want you, Rumi. The question is—can you allow yourself to be wanted?”

Her breath caught. She didn’t answer right away, because the question felt bigger than anything she could fit into words. But deep down, under the fear, under the scars, she wanted to say yes.

-

Rumi paused outside the apartment door, her hand hovering over the knob. The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of someone’s TV down the hall, but inside, she could hear muffled laughter—Zoey’s high and bright, Mira’s deep and grounding. For some reason, the sound made her chest ache and her palms sweat.

Second session down. She’d thought it would feel easier, walking out of Bobby’s office, but instead it was like carrying a bag stuffed with fragile glass. All the things she said—about her mom, about Celine, about the birthday-shaped holes in her chest—it was rattling inside her, threatening to spill.

Then, she finally turned the knob.

“Rumi?” Zoey’s voice was the first to catch her, the way it always seemed to be—like a thread tugging her closer. The second Rumi stepped in, she was greeted by the sight of Zoey sitting on the couch with Derpy sprawled lazily on her lap, Mira leaning against the armrest beside her, a book open in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. It was so domestic and cozy. Like it was theirs, all three of theirs.

“Hey,” Rumi murmured, setting her bag down by the door. She tucked a strand of damp purple hair behind her ear—the rain hadn’t fully stopped on her walk back, leaving it heavy and frizzed at the ends.

“Hey beautiful,” Mira said, her voice warm but steady, eyes flicking up from her book to scan Rumi like she always did. Noticing, assessing—making sure. “How was it?”

The question landed softly, but Rumi still froze. Bobby’s words were still fresh—**you don’t always have to tell them everything at once, but let them in a little more each time.

“It was… good.” She swallowed, tugging at her sleeve. “Hard. But good.”

Zoey brightened, though not in her usual bubbly way—it was gentler and more careful, like she was holding the moment in her palms. “I’m proud of you,” she said softly.

The words made Rumi’s chest ache in that way that was both painful and comforting. She looked down quickly, pretending to be very interested in unlacing her shoes. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, just long enough to make the air shift, before Mira closed her book with one hand and set it aside. “C’mere.”

It wasn’t a demand—it never was, not with Mira. Just an opening. Rumi hesitated anyway, but then her feet carried her forward until she was standing in front of the couch.

Zoey tilted her head, smile softening. “We missed you.”

The words sank into her like sunlight on cold skin. And then, before she could retreat into the safety of her sleeves, Zoey leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. Just a brush, warm and sweet, nothing demanding—but it shocked her system all the same.

Rumi blinked, startled, heat climbing up her neck. Before she could even catch her breath, Mira reached up from where she was sitting and tugged her gently down, pressing her own kiss against Rumi’s mouth—firmer, grounding, like a seal to Zoey’s spark.

When she pulled back, Mira’s hand lingered at her waist, steadying her. “Welcome home,” she murmured.

Rumi’s knees nearly buckled.

She didn’t know what to do with herself—didn’t know how to exist in this new, fragile space they were building together. She laughed nervously, brushing hair from her face. “You two are going to give me a heart attack.”

Zoey giggled, flopping onto her back dramatically, making Derpy yowl in protest. “That’s kind of the point,” she teased, though her eyes lingered on Rumi with unmistakable softness.

Mira shook her head, smirking faintly as she leaned back. “We’ll take good care of you.”

The words made Rumi’s pulse race. She sank down into the space between them on the couch, and the second she did, Zoey looped her arm through hers, squeezing lightly. Mira shifted just enough so her knee brushed against Rumi’s.

It was ordinary. It was overwhelming. It was everything she’d never thought she could have.

-

The soft buzz of the TV filled the apartment, but none of them were really paying attention. Rumi had nestled herself into the couch between them, legs tucked under a blanket Zoey had draped over her. Her head had fallen against Zoey’s shoulder sometime after the second episode of the k-drama they weren’t actually watching, and by now her breaths had gone slow and steady.

Zoey tilted her head slightly, looking down at the mess of purple hair against her sweater. “She’s out,” she whispered, smiling fondly.

Mira glanced over, lips twitching into a small grin. “Yeah. She must’ve been exhausted after therapy.” She reached out instinctively, brushing a strand of hair away from Rumi’s face. Her hand lingered for a moment before she pulled it back.

Zoey’s grin turned mischievous. She mouthed dramatically, so cute.

Mira rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree.

For a while, they just sat there, letting her rest. Rumi shifted once, curling closer into Zoey, and Mira noticed how her lips parted slightly when she was fully asleep. It tugged something deep in her chest.

Finally, Mira stood quietly, stretching out her long frame. “Come on,” she murmured, nodding toward the kitchen. “If we’re going to do this, we need to figure it out while she’s asleep.”

Zoey carefully slid out from under Rumi’s weight, replacing her shoulder with a throw pillow. She adjusted the blanket around her, making sure Rumi stayed tucked in, then tiptoed after Mira into the kitchen.

The moment they were out of earshot, Zoey clapped her hands together, eyes sparkling. “Okay. Operation: Birthday Redemption.”

Mira huffed a laugh at the name, leaning against the counter. “You sound like Jinu.”

“Good. Jinu’s a genius… sometimes.” Zoey crossed her arms, practically bouncing on the spot. “Anyways so—we’re doing it, right? We’re taking her to an amusement park.”

Mira nodded slowly, already running through logistics in her head. “We’ll need to figure out which one. Everland’s huge—it’ll take a whole day. But Lotte World’s closer. Indoor and outdoor, so weather won’t matter.”

Zoey tilted her head, pretending to weigh the options. “Everland is prettier, though. The parades, the fireworks, the zoo section… she’d love the animals.”

Mira exhaled through her nose, thinking of Rumi’s shy smile when Jinu had told them about her birthday wishes. “She would.”

Zoey leaned against the counter beside her, lowering her voice even though Rumi couldn’t possibly hear them. “Can you imagine her face? She’s never had this. Not once. And now—” She pressed a hand over her chest. “Now we get to be the ones to give it to her.”

The earnestness in her tone made Mira’s chest ache. She didn’t say anything right away, just studied Zoey’s wide, hopeful eyes. Finally, she murmured, “We’ll make it perfect for our perfect girl.”

Zoey beamed at Mira as she pulled out her phone and opened a map. “Okay, if we go to Everland, it’s about forty minutes outside Seoul. We’d need to wake her up early, pack snacks, maybe bring a change of clothes in case she gets wet on rides.”

Mira nodded, already picturing it. “We’ll have to make up an excuse so she doesn’t suspect anything. She’ll get suspicious if we’re too quiet about it.”

Zoey’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “What if we tell her we’re taking her to some boring errand? Like grocery shopping in the suburbs. She’ll sulk the whole way, and then—bam! Bumper cars and fireworks.”

Mira chuckled quietly. “That’s cruel.”

“Cruel in a fun way.” Zoey wiggled her brows. “You know she makes the best faces when she’s flustered.”

Mira gave her a flat look, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

They lowered their voices even further when they heard Rumi shift on the couch, both of them freezing until the sound of her steady breathing returned.

Zoey leaned in close, whispering like they were conspiring in a spy movie. “So it’s settled. Everland. Whole day parades, rides, fried chicken in paper cups, cheesy selfies with those animal hats—”

Mira cut her off, raising a brow. “Hold up… animal hats?”

“Yes,” Zoey said with mock seriousness. “Animal hats are non-negotiable. It’s not an amusement park date without them.”

Mira rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. In fact, the thought of Rumi in something ridiculous and soft like bunny ears made her lips twitch again.

Zoey caught it instantly and gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, you pictured it. You pictured it and you smiled.”

“Shut up,” Mira muttered, though there was no heat in it.

They both dissolved into quiet laughter, muffling it behind their hands so they wouldn’t wake Rumi.

When the laughter faded, Mira’s expression softened. “Two days,” she murmured. “She’s going to remember this one.”

Zoey nodded, her voice steady for once. “Yeah. She finally gets a birthday worth remembering.”

For a moment, they just stood there, leaning against the counter, the weight of what they were doing sinking in. It wasn’t just about a trip to Everland—it was about undoing years of neglect, about filling a hole Rumi never thought anyone would care enough to see.

And in that quiet, conspiratorial kitchen, both of them silently promised they’d make it unforgettable.

-

The night before Rumi’s birthday, the apartment was a whirlwind of whispered plans and frantic preparations. Mira and Zoey stayed up late after Rumi had gone to bed, finalizing every detail. They ordered tickets for the amusement park online, packed bags with sunscreen, water bottles, and snacks, and even made a checklist of rides and games Rumi would love. Derpy perched on the counter watching curiously as Zoey doodled a “Happy Birthday Rumi!!” sign that Mira decorated with glitter.

They fell asleep well past midnight, tangled on the couch with half-finished decorations scattered around them. The air buzzed with anticipation—the kind of quiet thrill that comes from knowing you’re about to give someone you love a memory they’ll never forget.

And Rumi? Rumi laid silently in bed, her thoughts drifting in heavy circles. She knew her birthday was approaching—not because she counted down to it, but because Celine always made sure it was marked on the calendar. Not as a celebration, but as a reminder. A reminder that her birthday was also the day her mother had died.

Every year, Rumi was forced to see it: that neat red circle around the date, the silent accusation tucked between all the other ordinary days. To Celine, it wasn’t a day for cake or candles—it was a wound. Proof of what Rumi had taken from her: her best friend.

Sometimes there had been “celebrations.” A small cake, a perfunctory gift, maybe a smile that never quite reached Celine’s eyes. But it was never love. Never warmth.

And Rumi had told herself she understood. That it was right for Celine to resent her. That maybe she didn’t deserve more than a hollow gesture.

Still, deep down, a small voice whispered that she wanted something different. She wanted her birthday to be special—not out of obligation, but out of joy. She wanted to feel loved. To believe she was worthy of it.

But even now, lying there with that thought in her chest, doubt crept in. Would the love Zoey and Mira offered really be enough to quiet the guilt she carried? Could their warmth erase the weight of who she was—this girl who had cost someone their best friend, who had never been certain she deserved anything good at all?

-

Rumi stirred awake to the soft smell of something sweet and buttery. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her body cocooned in the heavy warmth of her blanket. For a moment, she thought she was still dreaming—the faint clatter of dishes, muffled giggles from the kitchen, the unmistakable sizzle of something cooking.

Then came the whisper of footsteps.

“Careful,” Zoey hissed in a stage whisper, the tray in her hands wobbling just a little. Mira’s low chuckle followed, calm and steady, the sound of someone who’d already told Zoey twice to hold it properly.

The bedroom door creaked open.

“Happy birthday, sleepyhead,” Mira’s voice came first, deep and velvety as she leaned against the doorframe, one hand casually tucked into her sweatpants pocket.

Rumi blinked, eyes adjusting to the light spilling in. And then she saw Zoey—beaming like the sun itself, hair a little messy from the early morning rush, carrying a tray so overloaded it looked comical. Stacks of golden waffles drizzled with honey, a rainbow of fruit cut into perfect little pieces (Mira’s neat handiwork), and even a tiny paper flower taped to the edge of the plate.

“You made—” Rumi started, still groggy.

“Waffles!” Zoey announced proudly, marching the tray to the bed like it was a royal feast. “With strawberries, blueberries, mango, and extra whipped cream. Mira cut the fruit, I… supervised.”

“You supervised by eating half the damn strawberries,” Mira deadpanned, coming closer now, her lips quirking.

“I was taste-testing the quality!” Zoey defended, setting the tray carefully over Rumi’s lap. She plopped down beside her on the bed, already reaching for a slice of mango like she hadn’t just carried it in.

Rumi sat up slowly, pushing her messy hair out of her face, her heart swelling so much it almost hurt. The waffles looked amazing, but it wasn’t the food that made her throat tighten—it was the way they were both looking at her. Like her existence alone was something worth celebrating.

“You guys…” she whispered, cheeks pink.

Zoey leaned in immediately, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “Happy birthday, princess.”

Before Rumi could even reply, Mira dipped down on her other side, slower, steadier—her lips brushed Rumi’s cheek, warm and lingering for just a moment longer. “Happy birthday, Rumi.”

Rumi’s breath caught in her chest. She glanced between them, overwhelmed, and then both girls shared a look over her head—a wordless, mischievous exchange. Zoey wiggled her brows, Mira just smirked faintly, and before Rumi could ask what that was about, they both leaned in at the same time.

Two soft kisses landed on her lips—quick, playful, like they’d planned it.

Rumi froze, eyes wide, face burning crimson.

Zoey pulled back first, grinning so wide her dimples carved deep into her cheeks. “Birthday rule: kisses are mandatory.”

Mira sat back with that maddening calm of hers, though her gaze lingered on Rumi just a little longer than necessary, voice low as she added, “And that’s only the start.”

Rumi ducked her head, biting her lip, trying to hide her smile. She felt like her heart was going to combust right there in bed. She was so used to birthdays being something small, quiet, overlooked—but here she was, bathed in sunlight, wrapped in love and waffles and ridiculous little paper flowers.

And she couldn’t imagine anything better.

Chapter Text

The kitchen smelled faintly of strawberries and syrup, warmth clinging to the air like a soft blanket. Zoey had insisted on making pancakes, Mira had insisted on keeping Zoey from burning the kitchen down, and somehow, miraculously, the compromise turned into a tower of pancakes that Rumi barely managed to eat half of.

She didn’t know what felt heavier in her stomach—the food, or the kisses that had followed breakfast.

Zoey had leaned across the table with her usual boldness, a mischievous glint in her eye, pressing her lips to Rumi’s cheek like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Mira followed, slower, deliberate, her mouth brushing the other side of Rumi’s face, voice low and smooth when she said, “Happy birthday, princess.”

The words still echoed in her chest.

It wasn’t play anymore. Not teasing, not casual. They all knew. They had said the words out loud, stripped themselves bare—I want this, I want you.

And that knowledge sat in Rumi’s heart like a beautiful weight she didn’t know how to carry.

Her smile had lingered long enough to convince them she was fine. But when her phone buzzed against the counter, relief fluttered through her chest—an excuse to step away before she drowned in the warmth of it all.

She slipped into her room, closed the door behind her, and answered without checking the name.

“Hello?”

“Happy birthday, Rumi.”

Her breath caught. Jinu’s voice was softer than she was used to—none of his usual sing-song teasing, none of the goofy bravado. Just quiet, steady warmth.

She swallowed. “Thanks.”

“I know you don’t like today,” he said. His tone was so careful it almost broke her. “I know why. And I’m not gonna make you talk about it if you don’t want to. But… you deserve a happy birthday.”

Her throat tightened. “Jinu…”

“No, listen.” His voice sharpened just slightly, not harsh but insistent. “You spend so much time giving to people, Rumi. Even when you’re hurting. You’ve always been that way. And you deserve people who give back to you. Today, tomorrow—every day.”

Her eyes burned. She pressed the heel of her hand against them, fighting the heat welling up.

“I’m glad you’ve got Zoey and Mira,” Jinu went on. “They look at you like you hung the stars. Don’t argue, I know you’ll want to—but I see it. And I just… I needed you to hear it from me, too. You’re worth celebrating. Worth loving.”

The words landed heavy, digging into her ribs. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh, sob, or throw the phone across the room.

“Why are you being so serious?” she whispered, half a laugh slipping through cracked edges.

“Because it’s your birthday,” he said simply. “And because you’re my best friend. And best friends don’t lie.”

Her vision blurred. “Thank you, Jinu.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Thank me when you’ve had cake.” His tone lightened, his grin practically audible. “And don’t think I don’t know you already tried to wriggle out of it. Eat the damn cake, Rumi.”

She let out a wet laugh. “We’ll see.”

“No ‘we’ll see.’ Cake is non-negotiable. Otherwise, I’m telling everyone you cried at that “it’s been a year daddy” video in freshman year.”

Her face flushed. “You swore you’d never—”

“Best friend immunity revoked.” He chuckled, softer this time. “Take care of yourself, okay? Have a real day. You deserve it.”

When the call ended, the silence in her room felt different. Not empty—just full of too much. Jinu’s words, Mira’s kiss, Zoey’s laughter from the kitchen—all tangled in her chest until she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

She set the phone on her nightstand and let herself fall back against the bed. For a moment, she stared at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry. But the thing about grief was that it never cared what day it was.

Her birthday was also her mother’s death day.

Every year, Celine had marked it on the calendar—not with balloons or candles, but with quiet reminders of blame. Rumi had grown up believing her existence had stolen something precious. And on mornings like this, when the house was full of warmth and laughter, guilt always managed to snake its way in.

She thought about her mother’s hands—long, delicate fingers brushing her hair back when she was small, weaving into her long signature braid. She thought about the lullabies she couldn’t fully remember, only the way they had made her feel safe. She thought about the gap in her memory, the blank space where a thousand moments should have been.

And she thought about how wrong it felt, how unfair it was, to want happiness when her mother couldn’t have it.

Tears slipped free before she could stop them. She rolled onto her side, clutching a pillow tight against her chest, and let herself shake. Not loudly—not enough for Zoey or Mira to hear—but enough for her body to remember how heavy love and loss could be when they lived in the same place.

She pressed her face into the pillow and whispered, barely audible:

“I miss you, Mom.”

For a few minutes, she just lay there, letting the ache move through her like a tide. Then, eventually, she sat up, wiped her face, and forced her breathing steady.

Through the thin walls, she could hear Zoey’s laugh again—bright, reckless, alive. Mira’s lower voice followed, patient and dry but warm.

Rumi closed her eyes. The grief didn’t vanish, but it settled, softened by the truth of what waited for her outside her door.

Maybe—just maybe—she could let herself have this birthday after all.

Rumi had accidentally fallen asleep, the weight of it all knocking her out cold. Her phone, still warm in her hand from Jinu’s call, sat facedown on her desk, the words you deserve a happy birthday replaying in her head until they started to ache.

Rumi yawned as she stared at her reflection in the small mirror propped against the wall. Her purple hair spilled in loose waves, brushed carefully earlier by Mira’s patient hands. Zoey had insisted on tying a little ribbon at the end, giggling like it was some kind of final flourish. Rumi touched the bow now, fingertips grazing the silky fabric.

If Mom were here…

The thought came uninvited, heavy and raw. She imagined her mother’s voice humming in the kitchen, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filling the house, her laughter echoing through the walls. Birthdays used to mean something—before the accident. Now, they were a reminder. A reminder that her mother’s death date and her own birthday would forever be bound together.

Her chest tightened, guilt pressing down. She’d promised herself not to let grief steal the day from Zoey and Mira, not when they’d gone through so much effort. Still, it sat in her like a stone. She pressed her lips together, took a slow breath, and finally stepped out of her room.

The sight that met her stopped her in her tracks.

The living room looked like a small storm had passed through—but the organized kind, the kind Mira would allow. Backpacks lined the wall near the door, neatly zipped, each one bulging with snacks, water bottles, jackets rolled up and clipped to the sides. A tote bag sat on the couch with what looked suspiciously like sunscreen peeking out. And on top of it all—Zoey’s giant sunhat, floppy and ridiculous, balanced like a crown.

Rumi blinked, confused, until she noticed the way both girls were moving around like conspirators. Zoey was bent over by the coffee table, trying (and failing) to close a bag of chips, while Mira stood by the door double-checking the straps on a backpack. They froze in unison when they saw her.

“You’re up,” Mira said casually, like she hadn’t just whipped her hand away from stuffing something extra in one of the bags. Her voice was too level, her stance too stiff.

Zoey, on the other hand, grinned guiltily. “Surprise?”

Rumi’s brows drew together. “What… what is all this?”

Zoey bounded over, nearly tripping over her own shoes in the process. She caught herself on the couch, then spread her arms wide like a magician about to reveal the final trick. “We,” she announced dramatically, “are going on a field trip.”

Mira sighed, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. “It’s not a field trip. It’s—”

Zoey cut her off, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “It’s an amusement park day!”

The words hit Rumi like a splash of cold water and warmth all at once. Her lips parted, breath catching. “An… amusement park?”

Mira softened then, her voice lowering as she stepped closer. “We wanted to do something that felt like a real birthday. Something fun, not heavy. You deserve that.”

Rumi’s eyes flickered between them, the weight in her chest loosening but not disappearing. She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, torn between disbelief and the pull of emotion at the thought that they’d… planned this. For her.

Zoey nudged her shoulder gently, beaming. “Come on, Ru. Bumper cars, cotton candy, screaming until we lose our voices—it’s the birthday package deal.”

Her throat burned suddenly, and she had to duck her head to keep her expression from giving her away. “You didn’t have to do all this…” she whispered.

“Exactly why we did,” Mira murmured, so quiet it almost got lost under Zoey’s excited chatter.

Rumi stood there, overwhelmed, staring at the backpacks and sunscreen and Zoey’s ridiculous hat. The kind of preparations people made for a day. For a memory. For her. And despite the heaviness that still lingered, despite the ache that thinking of her mother had left behind, she felt something else, too. Something fragile but steady—like hope trying to stitch itself back together.

-

Rumi had started wearing more revealing clothing around the girls.

It hadn’t happened overnight. At first, it was little things—leaving her sleeves pushed up when Zoey sat too close on the couch, or not rushing to tug down the hem of her pajama shorts when Mira walked into the kitchen. But slowly, in the quiet safety of their apartment, she’d begun testing the edges of her comfort. Tops that bared a sliver of stomach. Looser hair instead of her usual curtain that hid half her face. And sometimes, when she felt brave enough, short sleeves that didn’t conceal the pale scars running faintly across her arms.

It still made her stomach knot, every time. The way her chest clenched, waiting for someone’s eyes to linger too long, or for that sharp shift in air she’d learned to anticipate years ago—disgust, pity, anything that would confirm her deepest fears.

But around Zoey and Mira, that moment never came. They never flinched, never stared too long. Sometimes Mira’s gaze softened, sometimes Zoey would beam at her like she was sunshine itself, but it wasn’t pity. It was something warmer. Something safe.

That morning, Rumi stood in front of her bedroom mirror, fussing with her outfit. Her long, wavy purple hair fell loose down her back, a soft contrast against the pale lilac short-sleeved top she wore. The cotton clung comfortably, not too tight, but enough that her scars were faintly visible when the light hit just right. Her mid-waisted jeans hugged her hips, relaxed in the legs, and for once she didn’t feel like hiding beneath layers. She looked… different. Exposed.

Her fingers twitched against her thigh, tempted to reach for a cardigan. But today was supposed to be different. Today was hers.

She took a steadying breath and stepped out into the living room.

Zoey was the first to notice. She had been crouched by the door, trying to stuff an absurd amount of snacks into her tote bag, but the second her head popped up and she caught sight of Rumi, her jaw dropped.

“Holy—” Zoey cut herself off, wide-eyed and dramatic. “Okay, I was not emotionally prepared for you to step out looking like that.”

Mira, who was tying her sneakers on the couch, glanced up at Zoey’s outburst—then froze when her gaze landed on Rumi. Her hands went still on the laces, eyes dragging slowly from Rumi’s loose waves down to the hem of her top, lingering just enough to make Rumi shift awkwardly under the weight of it.

“What?” Rumi asked quickly, tugging at the side of her shirt like she could make it longer. “Is it… too much? Should I change?”

Zoey shot up immediately, tripping over her bag in the process. “No! Are you kidding? You look—” She pressed a hand to her chest, stumbling for words. “Like, unfairly gorgeous. Like, ‘sorry everyone at the amusement park, none of the rides matter because the main attraction just showed up and is fucking amazing’ gorgeous.”

Rumi ducked her head, cheeks heating. “Zoey…”

Mira finally stood, crossing the space with that quiet, deliberate way of hers. She didn’t say anything at first, just reached out and brushed one strand of Rumi’s hair back behind her shoulder, letting her fingers ghost briefly over Rumi’s upper arm. The touch was featherlight, but grounding.

“You don’t have to cover up,” Mira said softly, her voice low enough that it felt like it was meant for Rumi alone. “Not with us. Not out there, either—not if you don’t want to. You’re beautiful exactly as you are.”

Rumi’s throat tightened. It wasn’t the words—she’d heard variations of them before, hollow and obligatory. It was the way Mira said it, steady and sure, like a fact no one could argue.

Zoey nodded vigorously, sliding up beside her. “Seriously. Like, I’m already stressing about keeping random strangers from staring. Mira, we might need a game plan. Should I carry a spray bottle? Or maybe just hiss at people like a feral cat if they look too long?”

That startled a laugh out of Rumi, the tension in her chest loosening just a little. “Zoey, no.”

Zoey gasped dramatically. “Fine. But I swear if anyone stares for too long.”

Mira’s lips curved, small but fond, as she watched Rumi laugh. Then she leaned closer, so close her breath warmed Rumi’s ear. “You don’t have to be nervous,” she murmured. “We’ll be right beside you.”

Rumi let out a slow exhale, caught between nerves and something fluttery that made her heart ship. She nodded, clutching the strap of her bag a little tighter.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

And when she followed them out the door, her scars bared to the sunlight for the first time in years, she didn’t feel as afraid as she thought she would.

-

The three of them spilled out into the warm morning sun, Mira locking the apartment door behind them while Zoey struggled to balance three bags at once.

“Why do you have my bag?” Mira asked, one brow arched.

Zoey huffed, dramatically adjusting the straps on her shoulders. “Because, Mira, you walk too slow when you’re carrying stuff. Efficiency.”

“It’s called balance,” Mira muttered, reaching to take her bag back, but Zoey danced away just fast enough to avoid her, nearly knocking into the banister.

Rumi trailed behind, quiet but smiling faintly at the familiar bickering. It felt safe somehow, the way those two could argue about the most meaningless things and still make it sound like love.

By the time they reached Mira’s car, Zoey was already in the passenger seat, fiddling with the aux cord like it was her birthright. Rumi slid into the back, clutching her smaller bag to her chest. The fabric seat was warm under her legs, carrying the faint smell of Mira’s cologne and Zoey’s strawberry body spray—home, in a way.

Mira adjusted the mirrors with her usual precision, then shot Zoey a warning glance. “If you blast music, I swear—”

“I’m curating a vibe,” Zoey interrupted, scrolling furiously through her playlist.

The car jerked slightly as Mira pulled onto the main road, her knuckles tight on the wheel. Rumi leaned her forehead against the window, letting the blur of passing trees and buildings wash over her. Zoey’s “birthday road trip playlist” started—an upbeat pop song that filled the small space with a kind of cheer Rumi wished she could fully match.

But her chest felt heavy again. Jinu’s words echoed faintly in her mind. You deserve a happy birthday.

Her throat tightened before she realized she was speaking. “It’s just… weird,” she said softly, almost lost under the music.

Zoey twisted in her seat immediately, lowering the volume. “What’s weird?”

Rumi hesitated, eyes still on the glass, watching her own faint reflection. “That Celine hasn’t… said anything.”

The name landed in the car like a stone tossed into water, ripples spreading. Mira’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, her brows drawn together. Zoey’s lips parted like she wanted to jump in, but for once, she didn’t rush.

Rumi swallowed, forcing the words out. “She never forgets my birthday. Even if she doesn’t… celebrate it. She always says something. Reminds me.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she bit her lip hard, ashamed of how small she sounded.

The silence stretched for a beat too long. Then Zoey leaned back over the seat, her hand reaching blindly until it found Rumi’s knee. She squeezed gently. “Hey. You’ve got us today. Okay?”

Mira’s voice came steadier, firmer. “She doesn’t define your birthday, Rumi. Not this year.”

Rumi blinked fast, willing the sting in her eyes to fade. Her fingers toyed with the ribbon at the end of her braid, the one Zoey had tied earlier. She wanted to believe them, wanted to let the weight slide off her shoulders. But the ache was stubborn, curling deep.

“I know,” she whispered. “It just… hurts.”

Mira’s knuckles eased on the steering wheel then. She glanced back again, meeting Rumi’s gaze in the mirror for just a moment before the road demanded her eyes. It was soft, that look—an unspoken I know it does.

Zoey, maybe sensing the heaviness was too much to sit in, cranked the volume back up. “Okay, rule number one of Birthday Road Trips: no more sadness until during the rollercoasters.” She shot Rumi a bright grin, trying to coax one out of her in return.

And despite herself—despite the ache still lodged in her chest—Rumi let out a small laugh. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Zoey to cheer and Mira to let the corner of her mouth twitch upward.

The road stretched out before them, wide and full of possibility.

-

The amusement park smelled like fried dough and sunscreen, the air buzzing with laughter, shrieks from roller coasters, and the faint hum of pop music blaring from speakers overhead. Rumi kept her hair loose, hoping it would act as a partial shield, but the late summer breeze kept tugging it back, exposing her arms to the open air. Every time someone’s gaze passed over her, her stomach tightened—but Mira and Zoey flanked her like it was instinct, forming an unspoken barrier.

Zoey was practically vibrating with excitement, her tote bouncing against her hip as she dragged them toward the center of the park. “Okay, okay, hear me out—we have to start with bumper cars. It sets the tone. Like, you can’t just casually go on a carousel first. No. We. Need. Chaos.”

Rumi smiled faintly, tugging at her jeans pocket. “Chaos?”

“Controlled chaos,” Zoey corrected, wiggling her brows. “I get to ram into Mira again. That’s, like, the dream.”

Mira rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged up. “You won’t even touch me.”

Zoey gasped dramatically. “Oh, it’s on.”

They paid for their tickets and filed into the line, Zoey bouncing on her toes while Mira stood relaxed beside Rumi, hands tucked in her pockets. Every so often, Mira’s shoulder would brush against hers—not an accident, Rumi realized—and each time it grounded her, pulling her out of her spiraling worries.

When the gate opened, Zoey sprinted ahead, nearly tripping over her own feet in her rush to grab a car. “This one! This one’s mine!”

Rumi hesitated at the edge of the arena, fingers hovering near the strap of her bag. The cars were bright and tacky, each one painted in neon colors with big rubber bumpers circling the base. People were already climbing in, laughing and jostling for position.

“You riding solo, or with me?” Mira’s deep voice came from her side.

Rumi glanced up, startled, only to find Mira already sliding into a sleek black-and-red car. The empty passenger seat beckoned.

“I—” Rumi started, but Zoey cut her off from across the floor.

“Nope! No way! Rumi, ride with me! Mira’s terrifying behind the wheel, trust me!” Zoey was halfway into a bubblegum-pink car, hair sticking to her cheeks as she waved frantically. “C’mon, birthday girl, pick your fighter!”

Heat crept up Rumi’s neck at the attention, but Mira simply arched a brow, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. “Up to you,” she said smoothly.

She let her gaze linger on Zoey, tilting her head just enough to be playful. “Up to me, huh?” she said, voice quiet but teasing, carrying the kind of calm that made it impossible to look away.

Mira arched an eyebrow from the next car, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, lips twitching in amusement.

Zoey blinked, caught off guard by Rumi’s sudden coolness. Her grin faltered for a second, then reappeared, wider and wilder. “Ohhh! Okay, Rum, game face on, I see how it is!”

Rumi laughed softly, letting the nervous flutter in her stomach mix with something sharper, daring. She leaned slightly forward in her seat, letting the small brush of her arm against Zoey’s shoulder linger just enough to make the other girl squirm. “You sure you want to race me?” she asked teasingly.

Zoey’s eyes went wide, the spark of challenge igniting instantly. “Ohhhh, it’s on. You asked for this.”

The bumper cars roared to life, and Rumi’s pulse quickened—not from nerves this time, but from the thrill. Mira maneuvered hers with that effortless, teasing ease that made Rumi’s chest flutter, but Rumi mirrored her energy perfectly, swerving and nudging just enough to make Zoey squeal in mock outrage.

“You’re cheating!” Zoey shouted, laughter in her voice as Rumi tapped her car gently with hers, grinning wide. “You’re way too good at this!”

Rumi tilted her head, letting her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Or maybe you just need to try harder,” she replied, calm and teasing, letting the words hang like a challenge. Her hand brushed Zoey’s shoulder again as they zipped past each other, and Zoey nearly lost her grip on the wheel, heart hammering—not from the ride, but from Rumi’s proximity.

Mira, meanwhile, had caught sight of Rumi’s confidence and smirked from her own car. “Careful, Rumi,” she called over the loud hum of the arena. “You might just make Zoey fall in love all over again.”

Zoey threw her hands up dramatically. “Already happening! You can’t say things like that!” Her grin faltered only for a second before she leaned forward, determination blazing in her eyes. “Okay, Ru, round two. Let’s see if you can handle me.”

Rumi bit her lip, letting the playful, teasing energy linger as she steered her car. “Bring it,” she said smoothly, her voice low and confident, and Zoey nearly slammed her car into the side wall in surprise, laughing so hard she could barely control herself.

The ride ended too soon, the buzzer blaring as they clattered to a stop, giggling and flushed. Zoey hopped out first, arms flailing in mock defeat. “Okay, okay, you win this time! You’re ruthless!”

Rumi stepped out calmly, brushing her hair back over one shoulder, still smirking. “Ruthless?” she repeated, mock serious. “I prefer… strategically confident.” Mira snorted from behind, shaking her head but grinning.

By the time they reached the food stand, the trio was buzzing with energy. Rumi let herself be guided to a small table, her usual careful posture softening. The girls ordered snacks—corn dogs, curly fries, and a ridiculously large rainbow slushie each—and Rumi watched them, laughing as Mira and Zoey argued over the fries.

Zoey nudged her playfully. “You’re being awfully quiet. Should I read that as smug ‘I-won’ energy or…?”

Rumi leaned back in her chair, her arms resting loosely on the table. She felt warm and light, a sensation that had been rare for her—so rare that she realized she was letting herself just be. “Maybe a little of both,” she admitted, smirk tugging at her lips. Her eyes flicked between Mira and Zoey, soft and shining, completely unguarded.

Zoey’s grin widened, and without thinking, she leaned across the table and pressed a quick, teasing kiss to Rumi’s cheek. “This is what happens when you act all confident. You’re just asking for me to yearn for you.”

Rumi laughed, tucking her hair behind her ear, cheeks tinging pink. But the tension and nerves from earlier were gone, replaced by a steady warmth. She let herself sink into the moment, to the point where she absentmindedly rested her head on Zoey’s shoulder as Mira handed her a fry, still laughing at the scene.

For the first time in a long time, Rumi realized she wasn’t holding herself back. She was letting herself enjoy the chaos, the attention, the love, the mischief, and the girls themselves. Her laughter came easier, her smiles were wider, and by the end of the snack break, she was thoroughly, completely out of her shell.

And Zoey and Mira? They were grinning like idiots, utterly delighted that their shy, careful Rumi had finally let herself shine for them.

-

By the time they reached the roller coaster, the lines were long and the air buzzed with excitement. Rumi’s confidence hadn’t wavered since the bumper cars. She strutted up to the ride, hair swaying over her shoulders, jeans and short-sleeved top catching the afternoon sun, and both Mira and Zoey practically froze for a second, eyes practically devouring her.

Zoey’s grin was wild, practically vibrating with excitement. “Oh my god, Ru, you look—stop being so perfect in public!”

Rumi smirked, deliberately flipping her hair back and leaning closer to Mira. “Is this… distracting?” she teased lightly, the corners of her mouth twitching. Her calm, confident energy made Mira’s stomach do a small flip—something she’d never admit aloud.

Mira cleared her throat, glancing away for a second, though her hand lingered just a bit too long near Rumi’s as they reached the loading platform. Her usual composure felt like it had melted off in the sun, replaced with an uncharacteristic flutter of nerves. She didn’t like admitting it, but standing there, strapped into the ride next to Rumi, the scent of her shampoo and the warmth of her shoulder brushing against hers made her pulse race.

Zoey, on the other hand, practically vibrated in place, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Okay okay okay! This is gonna be amazing! Rumi, you ready to scream with us?”

Rumi tilted her head, cool and teasing, letting a small smile tug at her lips. “I think I’ll survive… as long as Mira here doesn’t panic and ruin it for me,” she said, eyes flicking toward Mira.

Mira’s cheeks flushed pink. “I’m… fine,” she muttered, though her grip tightened on the safety bar. “Totally fine.”

The ride jolted forward, the chain rattling and pulling them slowly up the first incline. Rumi leaned back, hands loosely gripping the safety bar, eyes sparkling with amusement. She looked over at Mira, who was gripping the bar a little too tightly, lips pressed thin.

“You’re… nervous,” Rumi said softly, letting the words brush Mira like a tease rather than an accusation.

Mira huffed, trying to keep her usual cool tone, but it came out high and flustered. “I’m not—this is… just precautionary.”

Zoey, sitting on the other side, leaned forward with a grin, practically bouncing in her seat. “Yeah, sure, Mira. Totally ‘precautionary.’ You’re about to scream your lungs out, I just know it.”

Rumi let a soft laugh escape, leaning slightly into Mira’s side, just enough to brush shoulders. Mira’s pulse skipped a beat, hands tightening for a moment before she realized she could let herself relax slightly. Rumi’s teasing calm was infectious.

Then the ride crested the first peak, and time seemed to stretch. For a moment, there was silence—just the wind whipping through their hair and the slight creak of the coaster. Mira’s stomach knotted, adrenaline flooding through her in a way she hadn’t expected. Rumi glanced at her, eyes gleaming, and reached over, giving Mira’s hand a playful squeeze. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered. “I’m right here.”

That small contact, warm and grounding, made Mira’s heart thud embarrassingly fast. She opened her mouth to respond, but the coaster began its first drop, and a simultaneous shriek tore from all three of them. Zoey’s wild, high-pitched laughter echoed, Rumi’s confident thrill was infectious, and Mira—surprisingly—found herself laughing and screaming in equal measure, despite the nervous flutter in her chest.

The ride twisted and turned, looping over sudden drops and spirals, and Rumi leaned between them both, her confident grin never faltering. She was teasing Mira with her glances, brushing shoulders deliberately, whispering small quips that made Mira’s cheeks heat further. Zoey was almost bouncing in her seat, thrilled by the ride and the tension between Rumi and Mira, laughing so hard it was contagious.

By the time the coaster screeched to a stop, all three of them were breathless, flushed, and buzzing with adrenaline. Mira had to admit—only to herself—that she’d never felt so alive, so completely swept up in the moment. Rumi’s teasing, calm energy had carried her through the ride in a way she hadn’t expected, leaving her simultaneously exhilarated and flustered.

Rumi hopped out of the car with ease, hair tousled perfectly, jeans slightly creased from the ride, and short-sleeved top catching the sunlight just right. She turned toward Mira and Zoey, flashing a grin that made both of them pause. “Well?” she asked, mock serious. “Did you survive, or do you need me to carry you off the ride?”

Zoey laughed, clapping her hands together. “I’m good, but Mira? I think she might need rescuing.”

Mira opened her mouth, but no words came—only a soft, exasperated laugh as her usual cool facade completely melted. Rumi just smiled, letting her confident, teasing energy hang in the air like a challenge.

Zoey grabbed their hands, linking them together as they walked toward the next ride. “Next stop—snacks!” she announced, practically bouncing in place. “We earned it after surviving the craziest coaster of the day!”

Rumi leaned into Zoey as they walked, head resting lightly against her shoulder, and Mira trailed slightly behind, heart full, utterly content, and surprisingly ready for whatever chaos came next.

-

The smell of fried chicken, popcorn, and churros lingered in the air as the trio made their way to the next spot: the amusement park’s photo booth. Rumi’s cheeks were flushed from the coaster ride and the snack break, a mixture of sugar, adrenaline, and laughter settling into a warm glow that made her feel light-headed in the best way.

Zoey practically dragged her by the hand, bouncing on her heels as she pointed toward the photo booth. “Come on, Ru! We have to do one of those cheesy strip photos.”

Rumi laughed, the sound bright and free, shaking her head as her purple hair swayed around her shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m ready to ruin my good side with you two,” she teased, though there was no real hesitation in her step.

Mira, a few paces behind, let herself grin, watching Rumi’s confidence bloom. “Good side? Rums, you have too many good sides. We’re not worried.”

Zoey yanked open the photo booth door like it was the entrance to their own private stage, shoving Rumi gently inside. Mira slipped in right after them, leaving barely enough room for the three of them to sit side by side. The bench was tiny, the space cramped—but perfect for what Zoey had planned.

“Okay, first pose,” Zoey whispered, bouncing in her seat. “Cheesy smiles. Big ones. Extra teeth.”

Rumi leaned back, grinning, letting herself exaggerate the smile, teeth perfectly showing. Mira followed her, a small, almost shy grin that widened when Zoey leaned in and wiggled her eyebrows at her. Zoey pointed to Mira. “You too, baby! Look like you’re the happiest girl alive!”

Mira rolled her eyes as she mirrored Rumi’s expression. Rumi threw her head back, laughing, letting her hands rest on Mira and Zoey’s thighs as they squeezed together. She had started feeling bold around them lately, and today she felt unstoppable.

The camera clicked, and the first strip of photos appeared, all three of them grinning like maniacs. Zoey immediately grabbed it to inspect. “Perfect. Nailed it. Rumi oh my god, you’re glowing!”

“Not glowing just… radiating winner energy,” Rumi shot back with mock indignation, though her cheeks were pink and her smile betrayed her.

“Next one,” Mira said, her usual calm returning in a soft, conspiratorial tone, “let’s get a little… intimate.” Her hand brushed against Rumi’s, casual but deliberate.

Zoey leaned closer, eyes gleaming, whispering in Rumi’s ear: “Ohhh, I like where this is going.”

Rumi’s pulse jumped. “Wait, what—”

Before she could protest, Mira leaned in and pressed a quick, tender kiss to Rumi’s cheek. Rumi froze for half a second, heat blooming across her face. Zoey, laughing, immediately followed, pressing her own kiss on the opposite cheek. The camera clicked mid-kiss.

Rumi squealed, laughing so hard she could barely keep her head still. “Stop! Stop! You’re gonna—”

Zoey and Mira grinned at each other, smug and delighted. “It’s perfect,” Zoey said. “You look so cute, Rums!”

“Yeah princess,” Mira added, still holding Rumi’s hand lightly. “Completely adorable.”

Rumi buried her face in her hands, peeking out from between her fingers to see the prints already developing in the photo strip. Her laughter bubbled over again. “I—ugh, I can’t… you guys are ridiculous!”

Zoey leaned back, eyes sparkling, pretending to inspect the photo like a serious art critic. “Ridiculous, yes—but unforgettable. This is one for the wall. One for the scrapbook of all the amazing things today.”

Rumi peeked at Mira, who smirked faintly, her calm eyes warm and teasing. Rumi felt a surge of something soft and tender in her chest—love, excitement, belonging. She leaned between them, resting her head lightly on Zoey’s shoulder, and Mira’s knee brushed hers. She was safe. She was adored. And she couldn’t stop grinning.

The camera flashed again for a final strip, and this time, the three of them went all out: sticking tongues out, making exaggerated surprised faces, Rumi’s hands looping over both of them, laughter spilling freely. When the strip came out, Rumi held it up, eyes wide.

“These are… perfect,” she whispered. “I can’t even—this is too much happiness for one day, I’m scared.”

Zoey nudged her gently. “Oh, it’s only going to get better, Ru. We’re just getting started.”

Mira’s hand lingered on Rumi’s for a moment longer than necessary. “And you’re going to enjoy every second,” she murmured, voice low and certain.

Rumi smiled, heart soaring. For once, she didn’t feel small or uncertain—she felt seen, cherished, and completely at home between the two people she loved most.

-

Five hours later, the sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the park in warm, golden light. Rumi leaned back against the seat of the Ferris Wheel, her hair spilling over her shoulders, slightly damp from a splash on one of the water rides earlier, her cheeks flushed from laughter and the breeze. Around her, the world felt quiet compared to the chaos of the park below—just the soft hum of the Ferris Wheel and the gentle clink of chains as it creaked forward.

Zoey sat to her right, knees brushing hers, eyes bright and fixed on Rumi. Mira was on her left, one hand resting lightly on Rumi’s thigh, the other holding the edge of the Ferris wheel seat, posture deceptively calm but with a faint tension Rumi could feel radiating off her.

Rumi shifted nervously, looking down at her hands, fidgeting with the straps of her tote. “I… I can’t believe we actually did all of this,” she whispered, voice soft. “I mean… I’ve never had a birthday like today. Like, ever.”

Zoey’s grin softened into something gentler, warmer. “You deserve it, Rumi. Every bit. All of it. And so much more.”

Mira’s gaze lifted to Rumi, serious and steady now. “We wanted to make sure you felt… seen. And loved. Like you really deserve to.”

Rumi’s chest tightened at the weight behind their words. She’d been showered with care, attention, and teasing all day, but the sincerity now—the way they were both looking at her—made her heart thrum faster. She could feel it echoing in her chest, in her fingers, in the small smile that threatened to break across her face.

Zoey nudged her hand lightly, tilting her head. “Hey… look at us.”

Rumi lifted her gaze, meeting both of theirs. Mira’s eyes held that calm, grounding warmth, while Zoey’s sparkled with that mischievous, earnest light she always had when she meant something seriously.

Mira reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box. “Rumi,” she began softly, voice a low hum over the breeze, “there’s something we’ve been meaning to ask you today… something we should have asked a long time ago, now that we’re sure about us, about you.”

Zoey followed suit, her hand brushing against Mira’s as she pulled her own small box from her pocket. She leaned forward slightly, her grin softening into a hopeful, open expression. “Yeah. We’ve been talking about this for a while… but it has to be with you, Ru. Only you.”

Rumi’s heart pounded in her chest. The boxes were tiny, delicate, and when they opened them, inside were matching necklaces: small, intertwined heart pendants, one silver, one gold, connected by a single chain in the center so that when they were together, the hearts touched.

Zoey’s voice was almost a whisper, trembling with excitement. “Rumi… would you… be our girlfriend? Officially? With these, so you can always have a piece of us, and we can have a piece of you.”

Mira’s tone was calm, unwavering, but her hand tightened around Rumi’s slightly, as if drawing strength from her presence. “We love you, Rumi. And we want to be together. All of us. If you want the same.”

Rumi’s throat went dry. Her fingers shook slightly as she looked between them, her eyes filling with warmth and disbelief. The day had been overwhelming in the best ways, and now this—the culmination of every laugh, every ride, every silly, ridiculous, heart-thumping moment—they were asking her, formally, to be theirs.

She let out a shaky breath, trying to collect herself. Her gaze flicked to the necklaces, then back to Zoey and Mira. “I… I can’t believe you did all of this… for me. And… and you still want me… like this?” Her voice cracked slightly, a mix of awe, happiness, and lingering nerves.

Zoey reached out, taking her hand, brushing the tremor away. “We’ve wanted this for so long, Ru. But only if you want it too. We’ll never pressure you.”

Mira’s thumb brushed lightly over the back of Rumi’s hand. “We’ve already told you our hearts. Now we’re asking you to keep them… with us. Officially.”

Rumi swallowed hard, heat blooming across her face, and for the first time all day, she allowed herself to lean fully into them, into the certainty that they were hers and she was theirs. She laughed, a small, tearful laugh, then nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, voice trembling, “yes, I want that. I want you both.”

Zoey and Mira both leaned in simultaneously, pressing quick, reverent kisses to her cheeks, then sliding the necklaces over her head so the hearts rested just above her chest. The pendants gleamed in the sunset light, and Rumi could feel the weight of them—not just metal, but love, promise, and belonging.

Zoey wrapped her arm around Rumi, resting her head on hers, while Mira leaned in from the other side, shoulder touching hers, hand holding hers tight. Rumi felt like she could finally breathe, like she could finally exhale all the fear and doubt she’d carried for years.

“I love you,” Zoey murmured, voice soft and urgent.

“I love you,” Mira said, steady and grounding.

Rumi’s heart swelled so much it hurt—in the most perfect way. She nestled between them, laughter bubbling over again, tears prickling at her eyes. “I love you both,” she whispered, the words so full, so certain, that they almost startled her.

And there, high above the amusement park, with the wind in her hair, the sun dipping low, and the world stretched out beneath them, they were officially hers, and she was theirs. Whole. Complete. Loved.

Rumi’s phone vibrated against her thigh. The screen lit up with Celine’s name, and her chest tightened so suddenly it stole her breath. She stared at it, thumb hovering, heart hammering. For a split second she thought about ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail like she always did—but something made her press the green button, letting the line connect. Because, this has secretly been the call she awaited for all day.

“Rumi…” Celine’s voice was low, strained, tremulous. Barely recognizable as the person who had haunted her childhood with cold indifference. It was softer now, fragile, but every syllable carried the weight of years of regret.

Rumi’s stomach churned. “C-Celine?” Her voice was shaky, almost breaking.

“I… I know it’s your birthday,” Celine said, voice catching. “I… I wanted to say something. I need to say something.”

Rumi felt a lump rise in her throat. Part of her wanted to hang up immediately, to push away the inevitable disappointment, the hollow apology she had spent years rehearsing in her mind. But another part of her—the part that had never stopped hoping for even a flicker of acknowledgment—kept her rooted in place.

“I’m listening,” she whispered.

There was silence for a long moment. Then Celine’s voice broke through again, trembling. “I… I’m sorry. For all the birthdays I ruined, for every year I made you feel small, for making you think… that you weren’t worth celebrating. I thought I could carry it, but… I can’t. I can’t anymore.”

Rumi’s heart lurched. Something cold and heavy pressed against her ribs. She clutched the phone so tightly her fingers ached. “What do you mean?” Her voice cracked, brittle, like dry glass.

“The pain of losing her… your mother… she was everything to me,” Celine said, words faltering. “I loved her, Rumi. And losing her… losing you too… I can’t—this pain has been too much to bear. But now… now I can finally be with her again.”

The words landed like stones dropped into her chest, each one heavier than the last. Rumi froze, knuckles whitening against the phone. Her vision tunneled. The bright sun above the Ferris Wheel, the distant shrieks and laughter of strangers, the gentle sway of the cabin—all of it became surreal, unreal, as if she were witnessing her life from behind a glass wall.

“C-Celine… no, please…” Rumi’s voice trembled, barely audible over the sound of her own racing heartbeat. Her chest tightened so sharply she couldn’t breathe properly.

Then—the unmistakable, deafening bang.

It tore through the line, through her chest, through everything she thought she knew about the world. The phone slipped slightly from her trembling hands. Her ears rang. The line went dead.

Rumi’s world stopped. Her chest constricted. Her legs went weak, and she sank against the Ferris Wheel’s railing, phone clattering to the floor beside her. She could feel the panic rising, thick and unrelenting, clawing at her throat. Her mother. Celine. Everything she had lost, everything she had feared, collided into one unbearable, suffocating weight.

The tears came instantly, unbidden, unstoppable. She buried her face in her hands, sobs wracking her small frame. Her body shook violently, like the grief had taken a physical form and was trying to crush her. Years of suppression, of tiny wounds that never fully healed, all poured out in that moment.

Zoey’s hands were on her immediately, warm and steady, cupping her cheeks, brushing tears away. “Rumi, hey, hey—it’s okay, you’re safe,” she whispered, voice fierce but trembling with her own fear. “I’ve got you. Mira’s got you. We’re right here.”

Mira’s long arms wrapped around both of them, anchoring them against the chaos of the world. “Rumi,” she said, voice low but unwavering, “look at me. Focus on my voice. You’re not alone. You’re not alone.”

She wanted someone to hold her, to tell her it would be okay—but no comfort existed. The words Mira or Zoey could say, the warmth of their presence, even the love they had shown her before… none of it could reach her now. Nothing could pierce the raw, gaping wound that had just opened.

Her lips trembled, trying to form words, but nothing came. She could only sit there, shaking, chest tight, heart breaking, as the Ferris Wheel carried her slowly through the sky, her world reduced to the unbearable ache of loss and the echo of a voice she would never forget.

Chapter Text

The Ferris Wheel kept moving, oblivious to the world it carried. The cheerful music from below, the carnival lights flickering against the sky, the smell of popcorn and fried dough—it all kept spinning while Rumi’s world had ended.

Her breaths came in ragged, shallow bursts, chest seizing like she couldn’t get enough air. She clawed at her own shirt, curling in on herself, her body wracked with sobs so violent she thought she might break apart right there on the metal bench.

“Rumi, breathe—just breathe with me,” Zoey begged, her own voice cracking. She tried to breathe in deep inhales and exhales, but the panic laced beneath began to protrude.

Mira’s hand was firm on Rumi’s back, rubbing circles like she was trying to anchor her in place. But even Mira—steady, unshakable Mira—looked terrified. Her jaw was clenched, her voice low, almost pleading. “Come on Rumi, stay with us. Please, it’s going to be okay—we’re here.”

Rumi couldn’t. She was already drifting, spiraling into that sound—that bang—that finality that would replay in her mind forever. She couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t stop the echo. Couldn’t stop imagining the scene on the other end of the call and the silence that followed.

Her body jolted with another sob, head falling into Zoey’s chest. Zoey held her tight, rocking slightly, whispering nonsense: “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…” The words didn’t reach. They couldn’t.

When the Ferris Wheel finally touched the ground again, the worker opened the gate with a cheerful “Have a nice night!” that made Rumi flinch like she’d been struck. Zoey and Mira had to half-carry her out, arms locked around her as her legs barely complied. People stared, whispers following them through the crowd, but neither of the girls cared.

By the time they reached the car, Rumi collapsed into the back seat, curling into herself, knees to her chest. Her sobs had dulled into hoarse, broken cries that ripped her throat raw. Her phone lay in Mira’s hand now—Zoey had picked it up from the Ferris Wheel floor—but Mira didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know if she should call someone. Didn’t know if calling anyone would even matter now.

The drive home was an unbearable silence. The engine hummed, tires rolling over asphalt, but none of them spoke. Zoey kept glancing back at Rumi from the passenger seat, face blotchy with tears of her own as Mira’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

Rumi just stared out the window, vision blurred. Streetlights smeared into streaks of gold. Every blink burned. Every breath hurt.

She thought of her mom. Of the way her mother’s laugh used to fill a room, warm and soft. She thought of the way Celine used to look at her mother, like she was the sun itself. And then she thought of the way Celine had looked at her—with disappointment, with resentment, with grief she hadn’t deserved to carry.

And now, she was gone too. Just like that. One phone call, one bang, and Rumi was alone—again.

-

When they got to the apartment, she didn’t move when Mira opened her door. Didn’t move when Zoey tried to coax her out gently, whispering her name. Eventually, Mira just scooped her up, silent tears streaking down her face, and carried her inside. Rumi didn’t fight. She didn’t speak. She just let herself fold into Mira’s arms like a ragdoll, hollow and shaking.

That night, no one slept. Zoey and Mira stayed close, sitting on either side of her bed like sentinels. But nothing they did—whispers, touches, even just sitting in silence—could reach her.

Because there are some wounds too deep for comfort. Some losses too final. And for the first time since meeting Mira and Zoey, Rumi felt like she had nothing left to hold on to.

-

Rumi must have drifted at some point, though she never felt herself surrender to sleep. It was like her body betrayed her, forcing her into a place she didn’t want to go. The weight of exhaustion pulled her under, but her mind didn’t rest—it churned, dredging up the darkest pieces of memory and stitching them into something unbearable.

The dream began innocuous, almost comforting. She was a child again, maybe seven or eight, small enough that her mother’s hand could engulf hers completely. They were in the kitchen—the one from her childhood home, sunlight pouring through sheer curtains, her mother humming as she chopped vegetables. Rumi clung to the hem of her shirt like she always used to, smiling up at her.

But then the humming faltered. The light in the kitchen blinked out, plunging everything into sterile white fluorescence. When Rumi blinked, she wasn’t home anymore—she was in the hospital. The smell hit her first: antiseptic sharpness that burned her nose, the faint tang of iron beneath it. Her mother lay on the bed, skin ashen, lips losing their colour. The steady beep, beep, beep of the heart monitor filled the silence. Rumi tried to move closer, to hold her mother’s hand, but her legs felt like they were wading through cement. She couldn’t reach fast enough. She couldn’t do anything.

Then, the beeps slowed.

Her mother’s chest rose once, shallowly. Then again, weaker. Rumi’s throat closed, her hands trembling as she reached out—

beep…

The sound stretched, drawn taut like a wire about to snap.

beep…

Her mother’s eyes fluttered, pupils unfocused. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

And then—

beeeeeeep.

The line went flat.

The colour drained from her mother’s face all at once, grey blooming across her skin like frost. Rumi’s scream tore through the room, raw, desperate. She lunged for her mother, clutching at her arm, but before she could hold on, hands grabbed her from behind. Cold, faceless hands. They dragged her back, away from the bed, away from the woman she needed most.

“No! No, let me go! That’s my mom! Don’t—don’t take me away! She needs me! ” Rumi thrashed, nails clawing at the floor, the sheets, anything, but the grip was unrelenting. Her mother’s still form blurred, the room twisting into static white until Rumi couldn’t see her anymore. All that remained was the deafening, endless drone of the flatline, a sound that clawed into her skull.

Then, Celine’s voice replaced it. Sharp, guttural, echoing all around her:

“You took her from me.”

“You ruined everything.”

“Every year you keep breathing, is another reminder she’s gone.”

Rumi spun, searching for her, and there she was —standing in the corner of the kitchen, eyes wild, holding something in her hand. A gun. The same one Rumi had heard over the phone.

“Celine—stop, don’t—please, please don’t—” she cried, but her voice came out like a child’s, high-pitched, breaking.

Suddenly, a loud bang erupted, echoing through the membrane in Rumi’s head. She fell to her knees, hands clutching at her ears, but it didn’t stop. The sound went on and on, over and over, until the world dissolved into pitch black. And then—another voice. Her own.

“It’s your fault. You killed them both.” 

“You’re poison.”

“You should have been the one to go.”

She screamed.

Her scream tore her awake. A raw, animal sound that ripped out of her chest and jolted Mira and Zoey upright on either side of her. She bolted upright, gasping, drenched in sweat, her hands clawing at her face as if she could rip the memories off her skin. “Rumi! Rumi—it’s a dream, it’s just a dream—” Zoey’s voice cracked as she scrambled closer, hands hovering uselessly before finally gripping Rumi’s wrists to keep her from hurting herself.

Rumi thrashed, sobbing, trying to break free. “She—she did it—I heard it—she—she’s gone—” The words tumbled out in jagged fragments, almost incoherent, her throat raw from crying. Mira grabbed her shoulders, firm but gentle, her deep voice cutting through the chaos. “Rumi, look at me. You’re here. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

But Rumi couldn’t look. She couldn’t be here. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, still seeing white on the walls, still hearing the bang, still smelling gunpowder. Her whole body convulsed as another sob ripped through her. She doubled over, gagging like she might throw up.

Zoey pressed her forehead against Rumi’s temple, whispering fast and desperate: “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, you’re not alone, please—you’re not alone.” Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, soaking into Rumi’s hair.

Mira wrapped her arms around them both, pulling them into a tight, trembling huddle. But even then, even pressed into the warmth of their bodies, Rumi shook like she was freezing, her cries piercing—unstoppable.

Minutes dragged into an eternity. Her screams ebbed into ragged sobs, then into small, broken gasps, until she was nothing but a trembling shell between them. Her voice rasped, hoarse and weak:

“She left me. They both left me.”

Mira’s grip faltered, her own chest shuddering as she pressed her face into Rumi’s hair. Zoey’s sobs redoubled, her thumb stroking Rumi’s knuckles like if she stopped, Rumi might slip away entirely.

But no matter how tightly they held her, the hollowness stayed. The room felt too big. Too empty. And Rumi—shaking, broken, clutching at air—felt the weight of a truth she couldn’t escape:

Nothing would ever fill the space Celine left behind.

Not love.

Not comfort.

Not even time.

Only the echo of that bang, reverberating in her bones.

-

Zoey’s sobs quieted to a thin whimper, Mira’s grip steady but trembling as she buried her own grief in silence. The room was suffocatingly heavy. The air between them vibrated with what hadn’t been said, the truth clamped tight in Rumi’s chest. Her lips parted, a shuddering inhale scraping through her raw throat. For a moment, no sound came—just that hollow gape of someone trying to dredge words up from the bottom of the ocean.

And then, barely audible, it slipped out:

“She called me.”

Both Mira and Zoey froze.

Rumi’s voice cracked like glass. “Celine called me. Just before… just before—” Her breath hitched so violently she choked on it. Her hands clawed at the blanket, gripping like she needed to anchor herself to something real. “She said she was sorry. She said… she said she couldn’t do it anymore. That losing my mom was too much and—”

Her whole body convulsed, the words splintering under the weight of them. Mira’s hands tightened on her shoulders, trying to ground her, while Zoey shook her head in disbelief, whispering, “No, no, no, oh my God, Rumi—”

“She said she wanted to be with her again.” Rumi’s voice broke into a sob so sharp it sounded like pain itself. “And then—then I heard it. I heard the gun, I heard it Zoey, and she—” Her throat seized, and she gagged, her face crumpling into her palms as if she could smother the memory out of existence.

Zoey pressed her forehead harder to Rumi’s temple, wailing openly now. “Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry—” Her words came in gasps, but they bounced off Rumi like raindrops against stone.

Mira’s jaw clenched, her own tears burning silently as she rocked them all back and forth. Her voice came low, unsteady, almost unrecognizable. “You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

But Rumi couldn’t hear. Not really. Not through the bang still ringing in her head, through the echo of Celine’s last words gnawing at her ribs. She curled into herself, trembling so violently the mattress shivered beneath them.

“I killed her,” she rasped suddenly, the words tearing out without thought, without reason. “If I wasn’t—if I hadn’t—she—she wouldn’t have—”

“No.” Mira’s voice thundered, sharper than she meant, startling Zoey into silence. “No, Rumi. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this.” Her hands cupped Rumi’s face, forcing her to meet her teary, burning gaze. “This wasn’t you. Do you hear me? This wasn’t you.”

But Rumi shook her head violently, sobbing harder, twisting away from the comfort like it burned. “She’s gone because of me—because I—because I remind her of—” Her words spiraled into incoherence, her body convulsing under the weight of grief too big for her frame.

Mira and Zoey clung tighter, but nothing they did could keep the world from collapsing in Rumi’s chest. The loss was too fresh, too raw, carved into her with a finality that no amount of love could soothe.

The truth hung in the room like smoke, choking them all.

Rumi had heard the moment someone she loved left the world.

And there was no undoing that sound.

-

Rumi hadn’t really slept again after the nightmare. Her body would give in for a few minutes at a time, only for her eyes to snap open with a jolt, lungs gasping, chest tight. By morning, she felt brittle, like a cracked piece of glass that would shatter if touched too hard.

When she finally got out of bed, Mira and Zoey trailed after her silently. No jokes. No music humming from Zoey’s phone. No soft questions from Mira. Just watchfulness. They didn’t know what to say—or if anything even could be said. Rumi sat at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea she didn’t remember being given. Her hair hung loosely around her face, eyes blank as she stared into the steam. The sleeves of her shirt slid down enough to reveal the faint scars on her forearms, but she didn’t tug them back. She didn’t care who saw.

Every clink of dishes, every shuffle of feet, seemed too loud against her silence. Zoey tried once, voice tentative, soft as cotton. “Rumi… do you want something to eat? I can make pancakes. Or—or just toast, if that’s better.”

Rumi blinked at her, like the words came from very far away. Then she shook her head slowly.

“I’m not hungry.”

The flatness in her voice made Zoey’s throat close. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying again and turned back to the counter, hands trembling as she fussed with the kettle.

Mira leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her jaw tight. She wanted to fix this. She wanted to wrap Rumi up and tell her she was safe, wanted to take the weight off her chest and carry it herself. But all she could do was stand there and watch Rumi withdraw, further and further, into the hollow place the phone call had left behind.

When Rumi finally spoke again, her voice cracked like dry sand. “She said she wanted to be with her.”

The air in the room stilled as Mira’s brows drew together. Zoey turned, wide-eyed.

Rumi’s fingers clenched around her mug, knuckles white.

“My mom. She said—she said the pain of losing her was too much. That now she could finally… be with her.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes filling but not quite spilling.

“She chose her. She chose death. Over me.”

The words landed like shards of glass. Mira pushed off the wall, crossing the room, but she didn’t touch her. Not yet. She crouched in front of her instead, lowering her voice.

“That’s not your fault, Rumi.”

But Rumi’s head jerked, her eyes flashing with something raw and wounded.

“Then why does it feel like it is? First my mom—now her. They both left, and I’m still here, like some… mistake that keeps getting left behind.”

Zoey couldn’t hold it anymore. She burst into tears, rushing to Rumi’s side and wrapping both arms around her shoulders. Rumi stiffened, then sagged, leaning into the warmth but not embracing back. She sat there, limp, letting Zoey cry into her hair while she stared at the far wall with an expression too empty for someone her age.

Mira finally reached out, laying one steady hand on Rumi’s knee. The pressure was firm and grounding.

“You’re not a mistake,” she said, and though her deep voice was steady, her eyes shimmered. “You’re the reason we get up everyday.”

The words didn’t fix anything. They didn’t erase the bang still echoing in Rumi’s skull. But for a fleeting moment, they tethered her—kept her from drifting fully into the void she wanted to disappear into.

The rest of the day passed in fragments. Rumi moving from the couch to her room, lying in bed with the curtains drawn. Zoey checking in every hour, whispering offers of food or tea or just company. Mira quietly handling everything else—laundry, dishes, phone calls. Both girls watched her like she might vanish if they blinked.

But the truth was, Rumi already felt half gone.

Like a ghost in her own skin.

Like her body stayed, but her soul had slipped away with the people she loved most.

And nothing—not comfort, not love, not even time—could bring it back.

By mid-day, all three of their phones buzzed at once.

It wasn’t a group chat or a social media notification—it was an official university alert. Mira unlocked hers first, scanning quickly before her stomach dropped.

“It is with deep sadness that we announce the passing of Yunjin Celine , Events Director of Seoul University. Celine dedicated her life to creating opportunities and memories for our student body, and her loss will be felt deeply across our community.”

Rumi’s phone sat on the table, screen lit with the same words. She hadn’t opened it yet. She stared at it like it was something poisonous. Her chest tightened, and her breath came fast and shallow.

Zoey’s hand darted out, muting her own phone immediately, like if she silenced the world, maybe it would soften the blow. But she saw Rumi’s wide eyes and knew there was no softening. Not anymore.

Then Mira’s phone rang. The name across the screen: Jinu.

She didn’t even think. She swiped and pressed the speaker.

“Hey—”

“Did you all see it?” Jinu’s voice was frantic, sharp. He sounded like he hadn’t slept. “Please tell me it’s not true. Please—tell me—”

Nobody answered.

The silence was loud enough.

“Oh my god. Rumi… oh my god.”

At the sound of her name, Rumi flinched. Her hands curled into fists on her lap. She wanted to reach over and hang up, to make it all go away, but her throat was locked.

Jinu’s voice softened, desperate.

“Is she there? Rumi, I’m so sorry. I don’t—I don’t even know what to say. I know you had your… complicated relationship with her, but—fuck—she was still—” He broke off, his words dissolving into static-like breath.

Rumi swallowed hard, finally forcing out words, though they trembled.

“She… she called me. Last night. Before.”

Zoey squeezed her hand under the table. Mira’s head snapped toward her, startled, but Rumi kept going, her voice growing brittle, defensive, like glass under pressure.

“She said she couldn’t take the pain anymore. That she wanted to be with my mom. And then—” Her throat closed around the memory. Her eyes darted down, refusing to look at anyone. “And then there was a bang.”

The line went quiet on Jinu’s end. Too quiet.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered finally. “Rumi… I don’t—shit, I don’t even know how you’re standing right now. I wish I was there. I wish—” His voice cracked. “You don’t deserve this. None of it.”

Rumi pulled her hand from Zoey’s, standing abruptly.

“I can’t—” Her voice was strangled. “I can’t talk about this anymore.”

She bolted toward her room, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

Zoey buried her face in her hands. Mira stayed frozen, knuckles white around the edge of her phone, listening to Jinu’s choked breaths on the other end.

“Take care of her,” Jinu whispered hoarsely. “Please. She’s not okay—I’ve seen this before”

The line went dead.

The second the door slammed, the apartment fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Zoey sank into the couch cushions, head in her hands, nails digging into her palms. Her stomach twisted with helplessness. Every instinct in her screamed to chase after Rumi, to pull her out, to force some kind of normalcy—but she also knew Rumi wasn’t ready. Not yet.

Mira stayed standing, rigid, gripping the edge of the counter like it could anchor her to some solid reality. Her jaw was tight, her usual composed calm felt miles away. The words Jinu had left dangling in her mind—“You don’t deserve this”—echoed with a weight that made her chest ache. She had to do something. Anything. But there was nothing to do. Nothing that could fix this.

For a long, unbearable moment, they simply existed in the same space, silent and broken, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

Finally, Mira broke, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling despite her effort to keep steady.

“She’s… she’s shut down. We can’t force her to talk yet. We can’t…”

Zoey lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes puffy and raw, voice shaking.

“I know, I know, but it hurts just… just sitting here. Seeing her like that. I feel… useless.”

Mira swallowed hard, nodding.

“I understand—but—we’re not. We’re here. That’s all we can be. All we can do is wait for her to want to talk to us again.”

Zoey’s hands trembled as she pulled her knees closer to her chest. “It’s not fair. She shouldn’t have to carry this alone, not after everything… and now—now it’s too much. I can’t even imagine what she’s thinking right now.”

Zoey let out a shaky breath, closing her eyes. “We just have to… be ready. Whenever she’s ready. Even if it takes forever.”

Mira nodded again as she allowed herself to sit down beside Zoey, leaning into her like they were both holding onto each other for support, not just Rumi.

Meanwhile, behind the closed door, Rumi’s room was dark except for the thin streaks of sunlight bleeding through the blinds. She sat on the edge of her bed, phone discarded on the floor beside her, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them as though she could somehow keep herself from shattering further. The official university message, Jinu’s call, the memory of Celine’s voice—it all rolled through her mind in relentless waves, and she didn’t even try to stop them.

She hadn’t cried in a while. She just… felt hollow. Numb. Every muscle ached from exhaustion and grief. Her heartbeat felt too loud, too fast, too impossible to bear, and she pressed her forehead against her knees, wishing she could crawl into herself and disappear entirely.

And then, softly, a familiar thump against the floor made her flinch. Derpy padded into the room, tail moving gracefully behind with all the sloppy, loving enthusiasm only a cat could muster. He nosed at Rumi’s hand, then pawed gently at her arm, his head tilting in that way that always made Rumi’s chest ache with affection.

Rumi’s breath hitched. Her lips trembled as she slowly extended a hand. Derpy nudged it with his nose, then climbed onto the bed, settling against Rumi’s side with the careless gravity of a creature who didn’t understand sorrow but knew how to offer comfort anyway.

The cat’s fur was warm against Rumi’s cold skin, and her soft, derpy purr thrummed through the quiet room. It was absurdly ordinary, impossibly steady, and somehow, stubbornly grounding. Rumi allowed herself a shuddering inhale, the first in hours, feeling the faintest thread of connection to the world outside her grief. “Now how did you get in?” She asked softly.

Derpy’s paw batted at Rumi’s hand, nudging it toward her, curling around her fingers, insisting on presence in a way words could not. Rumi let her arms fall away from her knees, letting the cat’s weight anchor her, tiny and persistent. The room remained dim, the sunlight streaking across the floor still harsh and indifferent, but Derpy’s soft warmth and persistent purrs wove a fragile lifeline. It didn’t erase the hollow ache or the echo of Celine’s voice, didn’t undo the bang that had shattered her world. But it reminded Rumi—silently, insistently—that something still existed to hold onto, something that loved her despite the impossibility of fixing everything.

-

Rumi let herself lie back against the pillows, Derpy sprawled across her chest with total disregard for boundaries. The cat’s warmth seeped through her like a slow, steady current. She traced the soft fur with trembling fingers, each brush a tiny tether to a world that hadn’t completely abandoned her yet.

Her mind refused to rest. Every blink brought Celine’s voice back, every exhale tasted of grief, every heartbeat thudded against the hollow where comfort should have been. Rumi’s tears returned, hot and unrelenting, slipping into her hair as she buried her face against Derpy’s side. The cat’s steady purr was the only thing that didn’t judge, didn’t demand, didn’t collapse under the weight of tragedy.

Hours passed in a blur of half-consciousness. Rumi rocked slightly, murmuring incoherent fragments of memory into Derpy’s fur, as though saying them aloud could somehow unspool the pain. She whispered about her mother—the way she laughed, the way she smelled, the softness of her hands. She whispered about Celine, the last words she’d heard, the impossibility of processing a grief so layered it left her numb in some places and screaming in others.

Derpy shifted, nudging his chin toward Rumi’s hand again, and Rumi obediently curled her fingers around the cat’s paw. It was a small, absurd act of control in a world where everything had fallen apart. She clung to it like a lifeline.

At some point, the apartment fell silent around her. The sun had moved, shadows shifting across the floor, but Rumi didn’t notice. She didn’t move from the bed except to adjust Derpy, to curl closer, to let herself be held by something alive and constant. The thought of Mira and Zoey sitting outside her door, watching and waiting, felt both unbearable and necessary. She didn’t have the energy to see them yet, didn’t have the strength to meet their eyes, but she knew they were there. That was enough for now.

And then, sleep found her—not full, restful sleep, but a fragile surrender. Her eyelids closed, body finally giving in, and Derpy nestled closer. In her dreams, the chaos returned, but slightly softened. The echoes of Celine’s voice were distant, the bangs muffled, the hospital walls faded into a pale, harmless light. And through it all, Derpy’s purr thrummed like a heartbeat she could follow.

Rumi slept fitfully, but when she woke again, her cheeks streaked with tears and her hair damp with sweat, she felt just slightly more grounded. She could breathe. Not fully, not easily—but enough to recognize that someone still loved her. That someone still existed in the world who didn’t leave, didn’t vanish, didn’t collapse into darkness.

Rumi lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, chest rising and falling unevenly. The shadows of the blinds cut across the walls like silent accusations, each stripe a reminder of how fragile she felt. Her body ached from the nightmare, from the sobbing, from the weight of everything she’d carried since the phone call.

For a long time, she just breathed. Not well, not steadily, but enough to keep from falling apart entirely. Derpy pressed against her, nudging her shoulder gently, paw brushing against her arm. The cat’s derpy, unjudging presence was a tether to reality—a small, stubborn insistence that life still existed outside her grief.

Rumi thought about Zoey and Mira. They had stayed up all night with her yesterday, had offered every ounce of care they had, and now, hours later, they were probably asleep, exhausted. Her heart twisted painfully. Could she—should she—wake them? They deserved rest, deserved to recover from their own heartbreak, and yet… the thought of facing the apartment alone made the hollow in her chest widen like a canyon.

She rolled over, hugging Derpy close, eyes tracing the cat’s fuzzy outline. If she stayed in bed, if she pretended she was fine… what then? The silence would press down on her. The apartment would feel like a mausoleum. She would be trapped in her own head, a prisoner of the echoes of Celine’s voice, of that flatline, of the bang.

And so, despite every instinct screaming at her to retreat, despite the tremor in her limbs and the way her chest ached with grief, Rumi forced herself upright. Derpy hopped off her lap as if sensing the shift, tail flicking lazily, offering her encouragement in the only way a cat could.

Rumi’s feet touched the floor, bare and cold. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, letting it hang like armor against the world. She padded quietly to the living room, each step a small act of courage. Her mind was racing, thoughts splintering in a thousand directions: What if I wake them too harshly? What if they’re too tired? What if they’re mad? But beneath it all, a quieter thought persisted: 

I’m still alive. I need them. I need someone.

She reached the bedroom doorway first, peeking in. Zoey lay curled on her side, hair splayed across the pillow, breathing uneven but peaceful. Mira’s face was buried in the blanket, one arm flung out toward the edge of the bed. They were vulnerable, trusting, still human after all that had happened. And somehow, that fragility gave Rumi the courage she didn’t know she needed.

Mira stirred first, eyes fluttering open, immediately registering Rumi’s presence. Relief and concern wove across her features. Zoey’s followed, blinking into the dim morning light, eyes red-rimmed, hands tightening slightly around the blanket.

Zoey shifted slightly, patting the empty space beside her on the bed, a small, wordless invitation. Her eyes met Rumi’s briefly, gentle and unhurried, the kind of look that said, You can come if you want. No pressure.

Mira’s gesture mirrored it. She reached over, imitating Zoey’s gesture beside her, a half-smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, her body angled in a way that left space, as though saying, You’re safe here. We’re here. You don’t have to face this alone.

Rumi’s chest tightened. She wanted to resist, to stay in her grief alone. But the warmth radiating from their bodies, the soft encouragement in their stillness, the quiet, insistent purring of Derpy at her side—it pulled at her.

She hesitated, heart hammering. Every step felt heavy, as if the air itself resisted her. Slowly, cautiously, she crawled onto the bed. Zoey shifted a little to make more room, and Mira’s hand brushed against hers as she settled in, a grounding, silent anchor.

Derpy jumped onto the bed too, nestling in between them, tail flicking lazily as though approving of the choice. Rumi’s body, still trembling, leaned into the warmth surrounding her. Zoey’s arm slid around her shoulders naturally, and Mira’s hand found her own somewhere near Rumi’s waist. No words were spoken, and none were needed.

The three of them, and the cat, formed a fragile cocoon against the world. Rumi closed her eyes, letting the closeness seep into her like a balm she didn’t realize she needed. The grief didn’t vanish. The echoes of the bang and Celine’s voice didn’t fade. But for a moment—just a moment—it softened, and she allowed herself to feel the faintest flicker of safety, of belonging.

At first, she kept her eyes tightly shut, as if opening them would shatter this fragile cocoon. But the warmth, the rhythm of their hearts, the unspoken reassurance—they seeped into her like sunlight through cracks in a dark room. She let herself shift slightly, curling a little closer, and for the first time since the call, a tremor of release ran through her.

Derpy nudged her face with her head, purring louder, as if prompting her to let go just a little. Rumi let out a long, shaky sigh, shoulders loosening. Her hands, once clenched so tightly, relaxed on Zoey’s arm, and she pressed her forehead to Mira’s chest, listening to the quiet thump of her heartbeat. It wasn’t an erasure of grief. She could still feel the echo of Celine’s voice, still taste the panic, still carry the weight of everything she’d lost. But here, in this small cocoon of warmth and love, it felt a little lighter somehow. The presence—the quiet insistence that Rumi was not alone, that she didn’t have to face her grief alone.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Rumi allowed herself to completely melt into them. Her body no longer trembling violently, her hands no longer clutching at air. Derpy stretched luxuriously across Rumi’s legs, purring so loudly it filled the entire room.

The room was still heavy with grief, and the future still felt impossibly raw and uncertain, but in that moment, she let herself belong somewhere again. Somewhere she was loved. Somewhere she could exist without fear of being alone.

The hours stretched quietly, the sun sliding lower outside, painting thin gold stripes across the blankets. Rumi stayed like that, letting her occasional tears be caught silently against Zoey and Mira’s bodies, letting Derpy’s persistent nudges and purrs remind her that some love was stubbornly present, unshakable. And slowly, so slowly, she began to believe—even if just for a heartbeat—that she might be able to breathe again.

-

Morning came reluctantly, the apartment drenched in the muted gray of early sunlight. Rumi hadn’t moved much since the night before, curled into the blankets with Derpy perched lightly across her legs, purring with that steady insistence. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t washed her face. The world beyond the apartment—emails, phones, responsibilities—felt impossibly far away.

But the knock at the door pulled her forward. Sharp and deliberate. It echoed through the apartment like it belonged to a world she wasn’t ready to enter. Zoey and Mira exchanged a glance, unspoken understanding passing between them. Rumi’s stomach twisted at the sound, and she didn’t want to move.

Two people in suits stood in the hallway, briefcases in hand, faces practiced and serious.

“Good morning, Ryu Rumi-Nim,” one of them began, voice measured, low. “We’re with the estate office. I understand you’re aware of the recent passing of Yunjin Celine-Nim. We’re here to discuss her final wishes.”

Rumi’s stomach twisted. Her throat felt tight, her pulse jagged. “I… I don’t understand,” she whispered.

The other official stepped forward, placing a folder on the small dining table. “Celine-Nim left all her assets to you,” they said carefully, eyes scanning her face for a reaction. “Her property, her finances, her personal belongings—everything. She specifically requested that you be made aware directly.”

The words hit like stones. Rumi’s hands trembled, her breath catching. She wanted to scream, to push them out, to erase the reality they carried—but she couldn’t. Her mind refused to wrap around the concept. Celine was gone. And now, by her own will, she had left Rumi with the tangible pieces of a life that no longer existed.

Zoey moved instinctively, brushing Rumi’s hair back, letting her lean against her. Mira’s hand stayed firm on her shoulder, steady, grounding. Derpy padded forward, attempting nosing the folder like he understood it was something important, something dangerous in its weight.

Rumi’s voice came out strangled, barely audible. “Why… why me?”

“According to the will,” the first official replied gently, “Celine-Nim wanted you to have everything. She made it clear this was intentional.”

The words pressed against Rumi like a physical weight. Her mind spun—Celine was gone, and now she had left Rumi everything, a life she couldn’t take part in anymore. She pressed her forehead against her hands, curling slightly in her chair, trying to shrink into herself, desperate to make the world smaller, more bearable.

Derpy nudged her hand insistently, reminding her—quietly, simply—that she wasn’t completely alone.

Rumi’s hands were still curled tightly around themselves, knuckles pale, but she lifted her eyes enough to meet the officials’ calm, professional gazes. Everything they were saying sounded like it was happening underwater—words muffled, surreal. Celine had left her everything: the house, the savings, even the little music studio she’d poured herself into. It should have felt like a gift, but instead it pressed down on her chest, heavier than any weight she could remember.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Rumi managed, voice low, trembling, like she was speaking through a fog. “I… I can’t… I don’t even know where to start.”

The officials nodded, giving her space. One slid a folder across the table—a neat, organized bundle of papers outlining assets, accounts, and instructions. Rumi’s fingers brushed the edge, hesitating, trembling. She couldn’t bring herself to open it fully. Every document felt like a reminder that Celine was gone.

One of the officials leaned forward gently, voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to decide everything today. Take your time. There are advisors, accountants, lawyers. None of this has to be handled alone.”

Rumi’s eyes flitted to Derpy, curled against her arm now, purring with all her weight resting on Rumi’s forearm. Somehow, the cat reminded her that even in the shadow of impossible grief, she wasn’t completely alone. That she had something—someone—who depended on her just as much as she depended on them.

Her chest tightened again, tears brimming, but she nodded slowly. “Okay,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I… I’ll try.”

The officials gave a small, encouraging nod, then began to explain the next steps. Rumi stayed seated, Derpy pressing into her side like a tiny anchor, and she felt—if not relief—then a thread of something she could hold on to. Just small. A little fragile. But it was there.

-

Rumi’s hands trembled as she slipped into the bathroom after they left, trying to hide from the officials, from the papers, from the weight of Celine’s legacy. She locked the door quietly, letting the click echo in the small, tiled space. Her reflection in the mirror was pale, hollowed, eyes wide with exhaustion and the faint remnants of last night’s nightmare etched into the shadows beneath them.

She tried to take a steady breath. Just breathe. You can do this. But as soon as she inhaled, the smell of bleach and the faint, lingering scent of the hand soap on the counter made her stomach twist. It reminded her—somehow—of hospital halls, antiseptic and cold, and the faint metallic tang that she could never shake from memory.

The echo of that bang, that impossible, final sound, crept into her mind unbidden. Her chest tightened violently. Her vision tunneled, and her fingers clawed at the edge of the counter as if holding onto it could keep her from being swallowed by her own mind. She sank to the floor, back pressed to the cool tiles, knees pulled into her chest, rocking slightly. The world outside the bathroom ceased to exist.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket—a small lifeline. Without thinking, she fumbled it out, her hands shaking so much she nearly dropped it. She scrolled to Bobby’s number, thumb hovering over the call button.

I can’t handle this. I can’t do this alone.

“Hello?” Bobby’s warm, familiar voice came through immediately.

“Bobby… I—I don’t know what to do,” Rumi rasped, voice breaking. Her words came in bursts, choked and trembling. “Everything… everything is too much. I… I can’t… I can’t breathe.”

“Hey, hey,” Bobby said gently. “Slow down. Take a breath with me. In… and out. Nice and slow. That’s it. You’re okay. You’re okay right now.”

Rumi did as he said, trying to imitate his calm, but it was like she was trying to breathe underwater. Each inhale burned, each exhale came out in jagged fragments. She buried her face into her knees.

“I… I just… I’m trapped in my head,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I keep hearing things. I keep seeing… things that happened… that I can’t stop thinking about. I don’t know how to stop it.”

Bobby’s voice was steady, patient, like a buoy thrown across a raging river. “You’re not going to be able to stop it right away, Rumi. Your brain is trying to process something huge—it’s normal for it to spiral, for it to replay and feel overwhelming. But you don’t have to face it alone. Can you do something for me? Just notice what’s real around you right now. Look at your surroundings, the light coming through the window, the feel of the phone in your hands. Ground yourself. Just for a moment.”

Rumi’s fingers pressed against the tiles, cold and rough, and she blinked rapidly at the pale blue walls, trying to let the sensation anchor her. “I… I see it. I see it,” she whispered.

“That’s good,” Bobby encouraged. “You’re here, Rumi. You’re in the present. You’re safe. That’s where we start.”

Her chest tightened again, and she felt tears prick her eyes. “I… I just want to disappear,” she admitted, voice trembling. “I can’t… I can’t deal with everything that’s happening. I’m still… I’m still trying to process everything—and everyone keeps… waiting for me to be okay. I… I can’t.”

Bobby’s voice softened, careful. “You don’t have to be okay. You just have to exist. You just have to get through the next moment. And you can do that, Rumi. You’re not weak for feeling this way—you’re human. Let yourself feel it, but don’t try to do it alone if you don’t want to. Can you let someone be there for you?”

Rumi’s hands clutched her knees tighter. She hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the bathroom door. She knew Zoey and Mira were probably just outside, quietly waiting. She could hear the faint scrape of a chair, the low hum of someone breathing. Normally, she would have recoiled, shut everyone out. But Bobby’s words settled in her chest, like a fragile thread.

“They… they love me,” she whispered, almost to herself. “Even when I’m like this… they still care.”

“Exactly,” Bobby said gently. “You don’t have to fix this by yourself. Let them in. You’ve carried so much for so long. Let them help you. It’s not a sign of weakness—it’s a way of surviving. And I promise, Rumi, you will survive this.”

Rumi’s chest heaved with the weight of her grief, the exhaustion of the last two days pressing down like stones. But she let herself sit there a moment, absorbing Bobby’s words. The idea of letting someone in—really letting them see her raw, fractured self—was terrifying. But the ache in her chest wasn’t so unbearable anymore, not while someone she trusted reminded her she wasn’t alone.

“I… I think… I can try,” she whispered, voice cracking, tears spilling freely now. “I’ll try to… let them be here.”

“Good,” Bobby encouraged. “Start small. Take a breath. Stand up. Open the door. And just let them be with you. No words have to come out. No explanations. Just let them be there.”

Rumi nodded, small and tentative. She stood, knees shaky, hands pressed to the door frame. She took a deep, shuddering breath and opened the door. 

Zoey and Mira were sitting on the couch, quiet, tense, and immediately, without a word, they shifted slightly, making space between them. Their eyes met hers, warm, patient, open. Rumi let herself walk forward, letting her body collapse into the small, comforting space between them. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t try to pull her out or fix her. They just held her, letting her feel the love she had avoided for too long.

Derpy jumped up at her side, brushing his head against Rumi’s arm, purring insistently, grounding her further. It was ridiculous and mundane, and somehow, perfect.

And as Rumi let herself rest there, with the girls on either side and the little cat pressing against her, she felt—just barely—the weight of her grief ease enough that she could breathe again. The echoes of the nightmare hadn’t disappeared, and they hadn’t healed everything, but for now, she was not facing it alone.

Chapter Text

Rumi sat curled in the far corner of Bobby’s office couch, her knees pulled close though she tried to keep her posture casual. It was always like this—her body betraying what her mouth refused to say. The room around her was too quiet, the hum of the air conditioner filling the silence she couldn’t stand but also couldn’t break.

Bobby was where he always was, in the armchair across from her, notebook resting on his thigh but never in his hand. He wasn’t writing, not yet. He rarely did until much later, after she’d left. For now, his focus was on her, steady but not suffocating, like he was holding open a door and waiting for her to decide if she wanted to step through.

“How’s your week been since we last met?” His voice was warm, even, careful. Not the kind of careful that made her feel fragile—just the kind that said he noticed she wasn’t alright.

Rumi’s throat tightened. She opened her mouth, closed it, then stared at the woven rug under her sneakers. “Fine,” she muttered, though the word came out more like a croak.

Bobby didn’t push. He leaned back, arms resting comfortably, his expression neither skeptical nor judgmental—just present. “Fine,” he echoed, nodding once. “Sometimes fine means ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Sometimes it means ‘I’m trying not to fall apart.’ Which one of these feels closer today?”

Her lips parted, but nothing came. Her chest constricted, a pulse beginning behind her eyes. The bathroom flashback from the night before clawed at the edges of her memory—her hands shaking, struggling for breath, feeling like her skin was on fire. She’d called him in the middle of it, voice fractured, and he’d talked her down with calm, simple reminders: breathe in, breathe out, find one thing that was real in front of you.

“I… I don’t know,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” Bobby said, not missing a beat. “Not knowing is allowed here.”

Rumi blinked hard at the floor, vision blurring. She hated how fast tears rose in this office. Hated that she couldn’t keep them down the way she did outside. “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” she admitted, voice cracking.

“Like what?” Bobby asked, tone still gentle but inviting her to shape the words.

Her breath hitched. She tugged at her sleeves, nails scratching lightly at the fabric as if her body could answer for her. “Broken. Weak. Like I’m just… waiting for everything to hurt me again.”

Silence settled. Not heavy, but open. Bobby didn’t fill it right away. He let it breathe until Rumi, shaky and small, lifted her gaze just enough to see him watching her—not pity, not disappointment either. Just the patient gaze he always wore.

“You know what I hear when you say that?” Bobby leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped. “I hear someone who’s still fighting to get through, even if she doesn’t feel like it. Weak people don’t show up here every week. Weak people don’t reach for their phone when they’re drowning in panic and ask for help. That’s not weakness, Rumi. That’s survival. That’s strength.”

The tears broke free. She pressed her palms over her face, shoulders trembling. “It doesn’t feel like strength,” she mumbled into her hands.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Bobby said softly. “Because when you’re in the middle of it, all you can feel is the storm. You don’t notice the way you’re still holding on. That’s why I remind you—so you don’t forget that part.”

Her breathing hitched again, uneven and raw. She let her hands fall, knuckles pressed against her knees. “It’s just… it’s too much. All of it. I keep pushing everyone away because I don’t want them to see me like this. But then I feel more alone, and I hate that, too. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

Bobby tilted his head slightly, compassion written into every line of his expression. “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

Rumi nodded faintly. “That… that I should let them be there. Because… they love me.”

“That’s right.” Bobby’s voice warmed, firm but kind. “You don’t have to carry this alone. In fact, you can’t. Not without it crushing you. Letting people love you doesn’t make you a burden, Rumi. It gives you air to breathe when you’ve run out of your own.”

Her chest tightened again, but this time in a different way. She thought of Zoey’s forehead pressed to hers during her nightmare, Mira’s arms locked around both of them, Derpy’s soft body curled against her when she thought she was alone. The ache of loss was still there, sharp and unrelenting—but underneath it, faint and steady, was the warmth of being held.

Her voice was small, tentative: “What if they change their minds? What if one day they… they decide it’s too much?”

Bobby leaned forward again, his tone firm now, no hesitation. “Then that’s on them, not you. But from what I’ve seen, from the way you describe them—those girls aren’t going anywhere. They’ve already shown up, again and again. You don’t have to test them, you just have to let them show you it’s real.”

Rumi swallowed hard, tears dripping silently onto her sleeves. Her thumb worried the seam of her sleeve as silence stretched between them. The quiet in Bobby’s office wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either. His little space smelled faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner, the blinds half-drawn to let in a muted square of sunlight. The sound machine in the corner hummed with the gentle rush of white noise, filling in the gaps whenever words fell short.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Bobby said softly, not pushing, just observing. His voice had that steady warmth that reminded her of Zoey on her calm days—playful edges tucked away, just this open patience. “What’s happening in your head right now?”

Rumi’s throat bobbed. She kept her eyes down on her lap, where her fingers picked relentlessly at the cuff of her long sleeve. Her nails pressed into the fabric, tugging at it until the stitching bit against her skin. The itch under there was unbearable—memory and urge all tangled together.

She inhaled, shaky. “I… I keep thinking about…” Her voice dropped to almost nothing. “About doing it again.”

The words landed heavy, and shame followed right behind them, rushing to fill her chest. She folded her arms tighter, as though if she held herself close enough, the confession would dissolve into her sweater instead of lingering in the room.

Bobby leaned forward slightly, resting his hands loosely on his knees. His expression didn’t change—no sharpness, no alarm, no pity. Just that steady presence. “Thank you for telling me,” he said. “That took a lot of courage.”

Her laugh was hollow, bitter. “Courage? It feels pathetic. I promised myself I was done. And now it’s like… all I want to do. Just once. Just to make everything quieter again.” Her fingers pressed harder into the fabric over her scars, like she was bracing against them, against the pull.

Bobby nodded slowly. “That makes sense. You’ve carried this coping mechanism for a long time—it became a way to find relief when things felt unbearable. Right now, it sounds like your brain is reaching for the thing it remembers used to work.” He tilted his head gently. “But you’re also here, telling me about it instead of doing it. That’s the part I want you to notice.”

Her lip trembled. She didn’t want to notice it. She wanted to crawl back into the version of herself that didn’t feel split open all the time. “It’s just… I don’t know how to stop wanting it.”

Bobby’s voice softened. “You don’t have to stop wanting it all at once. That urge may come and go. The goal isn’t to erase it—it’s to learn how to ride it out safely. To remember it’s just a wave, and waves always pass.”

Her arms loosened slightly, though her gaze stayed low. “But what if one day I can’t ride it out?”

“Then we make sure you’re not riding it alone,” Bobby said, his tone even, steady. “Rumi, you’ve got people who love you. People who want to sit with you in those moments. You don’t have to muscle through them by yourself.”

At that, her throat closed up. Her free hand drifted almost unconsciously to the necklace at her collarbone—the delicate chain and charm Zoey and Mira had given her when they’d asked her to be their girlfriend. Her thumb brushed over the little pendant, and her chest ached with the memory of that night: Zoey’s trembling excitement, Mira’s shy but steady smile, the way they’d both leaned close, waiting for her answer.

Her eyes burned, but not from shame this time. “They… they don’t know how bad it gets in my head,” she whispered. “They think I’m strong, or… or at least stronger than this.”

Bobby shook his head gently. “They think you’re human. And humans struggle. Strength isn’t about never breaking, Rumi—it’s about letting people see you when you do.”

Her thumb rubbed harder at the pendant, a grounding anchor as tears welled up and slid down her cheeks. She pressed her lips together, fighting the weight in her chest. “But what if they leave? What if I show them everything and it’s too much?”

“That’s fear talking,” Bobby said calmly. “The fear makes sense—you’ve been hurt before when you showed your pain. But love… love isn’t afraid of seeing the whole picture. If anything, it deepens when you allow yourself to be real.”

Her breathing hitched unevenly. She wanted to believe him. She wanted so badly to believe that Zoey’s goofy laughter and Mira’s quiet devotion weren’t fragile, weren’t things that would shatter if she let them see the darker corners of her.

Her fingers stayed curled around the necklace, holding it like a lifeline.

Bobby let the silence linger, giving her room to feel. Then, softly, “Can I make a suggestion?”

She nodded, barely.

“Next time the urge feels overwhelming—before you act on it—reach for the necklace. Remind yourself you’re tethered. You’re not alone. And if you can… let them in. You don’t have to hand them the whole story all at once, but even a piece of it will remind you that you’re loved, exactly as you are.”

The sob that broke from her was small but raw. She ducked her head into her sleeve, tears soaking into the fabric as her other hand refused to let go of the pendant.

For the first time in days, she felt the tiniest flicker of something other than despair. Not hope, not yet—but maybe the idea that it wasn’t impossible. That maybe she didn’t have to keep carrying it alone.

At the ending of their session, Bobby leaned back in his chair. His voice carried that steady warmth Rumi was slowly learning not to flinch from.

“You’ve been through a lot recently,” he said. “And we’ve talked about the weight you’re carrying—the urges, the guilt, the grief. But I want to shift for a moment.” He tilted his head, inviting but not pressing. “What’s helping you through all of this? Even the smallest things I want you to tell me.”

Rumi sat there in silence, her nails worrying at the inside of her sleeve. The question felt impossible at first—everything had been heavy, jagged, impossible to hold. But as the silence stretched, little flashes of colour broke through the grey.

Zoey, messy bun slipping sideways, shoving candy into her hand during the movie.

Mira, fingers brushing through her hair so carefully it made her chest ache.

And Derpy, curling at her feet at night, weight grounding her when nothing else did.

Her throat worked, and she almost shook her head, but Bobby just waited.

“My… girlfriends,” she said finally, so quietly the word almost disintegrated in the air. Her cheeks burned instantly. “It still feels… surreal to even say that out loud.”

Bobby didn’t react with surprise or questions. Just a small, affirming nod. “That sounds like it matters a lot to you.”

Rumi swallowed, twisting the chain at her neck, the little pendant Zoey and Mira had clasped there. “It does. They do.”

“And you mentioned Derpy last time,” Bobby added gently. “Still helping?”

Something in her chest softened despite herself. “Yeah. He… he sleeps by me. Like he knows when it’s bad. Sometimes he’s the only thing that makes me feel… steady.”

Bobby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know, we could talk about making him an official support animal, if that’s something you’d like. It might give you some added freedom to have him with you when things get overwhelming.”

Her head jerked up, eyes wide. “You can… do that?”

“Absolutely,” Bobby said, his tone practical but kind. “He’s already helping you. Getting him verified would just make sure the world recognizes that support, too.”

Rumi blinked hard, her hand tightening around the necklace until it pressed a little painfully against her palm. She hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected anyone to suggest making the comfort she clung to official. Real.

Her voice shook, but she managed to nod. “I… I think I’d like that.”

Bobby smiled, not the suggestive kind that pressed her for more, but the kind that told her he’d heard her, fully. “We’ll work on it together, then.”

The session wound down gently after that, Bobby reminding her again of her progress, even if she couldn’t feel it yet. And when she finally stood, tugging her sleeve down over her wrist again, she felt something in her chest she couldn’t name. Not light, exactly. But less crushing.

And that was the moment she walked out—and found Mira and Zoey waiting.

-

The air outside Bobby’s office felt lighter somehow, as if everything she’d spilled inside stayed there. Rumi tugged her sleeve down instinctively, thumb pressing against the inside of her wrist where old scars raised faintly beneath the fabric. Her other hand toyed with the necklace resting against her chest—the one Zoey and Mira had given her under the glow of the ferris wheel lights. It felt almost too heavy to wear, like a promise she wasn’t sure she deserved.

She pushed through the glass doors into the waiting area, head bowed, her long purple waves falling forward to shield her face. She hadn’t expected them to actually be there. But there they were.

Mira was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, her posture deceptively casual but her eyes flickering with the kind of vigilance that she never really switched off. Zoey sat slouched in one of the lobby chairs, knees bouncing, fingers picking nervously at the sleeve of her hoodie.

Both pairs of eyes lifted at the sound of the door.

Rumi froze, hand tightening around her strap. (dw rumi soon) She braced herself for the flood of questions she couldn’t handle, for the weight of concern that might smother her. But neither of them moved too fast. 

Mira’s brows softened, and Zoey swallowed hard, standing slowly, like she didn’t want to spook her.

“Hey,” Zoey said gently, her voice careful. She hesitated, chewing her lip, then added, “We were… um. Gonna grab boba.” She held up her phone like proof. “Didn’t know if you’d wanna come.”

Mira shot her a tiny glance, one that read they both fully expected her to say no. To pull away.

Rumi’s throat tightened. The easy thing would be to refuse. To retreat back into the safety of silence. She almost did. The word “no” formed at the back of her tongue, ready to tumble out.

But her fingers brushed the cool metal of the necklace again. The memory of that night—their nervous smiles, the way they’d kissed her cheeks at once, the matching chain hanging around all three of their necks—rose up in her chest like a fragile flame.

Her voice came out so small she barely recognized it. “…Okay.”

Zoey blinked. Mira’s head tilted, just slightly.

Rumi’s pulse hammered. She wanted to take it back, wanted to shrink into herself and vanish, but the word was already out there, irreversible.

Zoey’s lips parted in shock before curving into the kind of grin that lit her whole face. She bit down quickly, like she didn’t want to scare Rumi with too much enthusiasm, but her hands fidgeted with the strings of her hoodie. Mira’s expression stayed composed, but Rumi noticed the way her shoulders eased, the quiet exhale of relief she didn’t bother hiding.

No one said anything else. Mira just pushed off the wall and walked toward the door, holding it open in an unspoken invitation. Zoey fell into step a half beat later, her steps lighter now.

And Rumi, with her heart lodged in her throat, found herself following.

It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t healing. It wasn’t even close to fixing the hollow ache Celine’s death had carved into her.

But it was something.

Something that looked a lot like love.

-

The early afternoon sun was warm but not overbearing, illuminating the sidewalks in a bright light. The three of them walked side by side, though not quite touching. Mira’s long stride kept her a step ahead, while Zoey drifted closer to Rumi’s side every now and then before pulling back, like she was testing boundaries without meaning to.

The silence wasn’t heavy. It was tentative, careful, like everyone was waiting to see what shape the day might take.

The boba shop sat at the corner, glass windows fogged slightly from the cold air inside. The moment they pushed through the doors, a rush of sweet milk tea scent and faint k-pop music hit them. Zoey beelined to the counter, scanning the colourful menu like she hadn’t already memorized her go-to order weeks ago. Mira, hands tucked in her pockets, hung back with Rumi.

When it was her turn to order, Rumi almost froze, too aware of the cashier’s expectant gaze. But Zoey, without even looking back, chirped, “She likes taro!” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Rumi’s lips parted, startled. “…How do you know that?”

Zoey shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “You always take the taro mochi when we get desserts. I call it ‘pattern recognition’.”

Mira’s mouth twitched at the corner, like she was holding back a smirk. Rumi’s face warmed, but she nodded, allowing Zoey to place the order for her. It was easier that way.

They settled at a small table by the window. Condensation gathered on their cups, the ice clinking softly as they poked their straws through the plastic seals. Zoey took the first sip of her strawberry milk tea with boba, humming happily. “Perfect as always.”

Rumi stared at her own cup for a moment before lifting it to her lips. The flavour was soft and sweet, comfortingly familiar. Her chest loosened just a little. Outside, the sky had shifted to soft streaks of pink and orange. Zoey pressed her forehead against the glass dramatically. “Look at that cloud,” she said, pointing. “Tell me it doesn’t look like a dragon.”

Rumi followed her finger. The cloud was long and curling, with a wider puff at the top. She tilted her head, lips twitching despite herself. “…Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Zoey gasped, turning to Mira for backup. “Tell her, it’s a dragon. With wings and everything.”

Mira sipped her drink calmly. “Looks more like a teapot.”

Zoey threw her hands up. “Oh my god. I’m surrounded by children.”

A laugh slipped out of Rumi before she could stop it—small, breathy, but real. Zoey’s eyes widened slightly at the sound, and Mira glanced at her like she’d just spotted something rare. Rumi ducked her head quickly, pretending to be fascinated by the tapioca pearls at the bottom of her cup.

Laughter was shared, and Rumi found herself relaxing in the remaining time spent at the boba shop.

When they stepped back outside, a couple walked past with a small, fluffy dog on a leash. The dog paused, tail wagging furiously as it stared up at Rumi like it had chosen her specifically.

Her entire body stiffened. She hadn’t touched a dog in years, afraid she’d somehow hurt it, or that it wouldn’t want her near. She froze in place, hands gripping her cup so tightly the plastic crinkled.

The owner smiled kindly. “She’s friendly, don’t worry.”

Rumi’s throat went dry. She wanted to shake her head, to retreat—but the dog was wagging harder now, little paws lifting off the ground with every bounce. Zoey crouched down immediately, scratching behind its ears. Mira leaned against the railing, waiting.

Rumi hesitated. Her pulse quickened. Slowly, she crouched too, hand hovering awkwardly in the air. The dog leaned in, pressing its warm snout against her palm like it had been waiting just for her.

Her breath caught.

The fur was softer than she expected, the weight of its trust startling in a way that made her chest ache. She stroked its head gently, fingers trembling at first but steadying with each pass. The dog leaned closer, practically melting under her touch.

“You’re good with her,” the owner said before tugging the leash lightly and continuing down the street.

Rumi stayed crouched for a moment longer, watching the dog trot away. Something in her eyes stung, though she couldn’t name why or what that something was. When she finally stood, Mira was already walking ahead, giving her space, while Zoey lingered beside her with a quiet smile she didn’t comment on.

They didn’t make her talk about it. They didn’t need to.

By the time they reached the end of the block, Rumi realized her cup was half empty, her steps were lighter, and the silence didn’t feel like suffocation.

It felt like breaths of fresh air.

-

The first step back into the apartment felt—different. As if the air itself carried the girls’ emotions, shifting the atmosphere in a way Rumi couldn’t quite name. The weight of everything hadn’t completely lifted, but it no longer gnawed at her chest.

She gently set her half finished boba on the counter, suddenly feeling over-aware. Today had been… good—too good. But Rumi had played these games before. Her birthday started with gleeful laughter, affectionate glances, and genuine enthusiasm. Then, in the last few hours—everything went to shit.

Complete. Utter. Shit.

“Hey, want to watch something?” Mira offered, attempting to pull Rumi away from her thoughts. 

But it didn’t land.

Instead, all it did was remind her of her newborn status. Mira and Zoey’s girlfriend. The word still sat foreign and fragile on her tongue. She didn’t know how to wear it properly. Mira and Zoey had years between them—shared playlists, inside jokes, a whole universe of memories she wasn’t a part of. And what did she know?

Nothing.

God, she didn’t even know how they liked to be touched. What if they wanted—sex? What would she say then? How would she handle it without disappointing them? Her skin prickled just imagining it, a panic disguised as heat. Maybe she should listen in on them again—

“Princess,”

Her head snapped up. Mira was watching her, brows drawn. “Hey. Thought I lost you there.”

Zoey had already claimed her usual spot on the couch, one leg thrown over the other, straw between her lips as she finished the last of her drink. She tilted her head, eyes soft. “You okay?”

Rumi’s throat closed. She wanted to lie, to say yes. But the weight of both pairs of eyes on her burned in a way that made hiding impossible. Her sleeve slid against her wrist as she shifted, fingers pressing against the fabric where her scars lay hidden. The urge to confess—to say she wanted to relapse so badly it hurt—rose like a tide, threatening to pull everything out of her chest at once.

Her other hand fumbled upward, brushing against the small necklace at her collarbone. The one Mira and Zoey had given her the night they asked her to be theirs. The cool metal steadied her, though her voice came out barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know if I know how to do this,” she admitted, eyes darting between them. “Any of it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was patient.

“I don’t know if I know how to do this,” Rumi repeated, fingers trembling as they toyed with the necklace. “Any of it.”

Mira didn’t move at first, just studied her with that quiet, grounding intensity she always carried. Then she reached out, slow and deliberate, like giving Rumi a hundred chances to pull away. When her hand finally settled over Rumi’s wrist—right where her fingers had been pressing against her scars—her touch was warm, steady.

“You don’t have to know everything,” Mira said, voice low but firm. “That’s not how this works. We figure it out, together.”

Zoey slid off the couch, kneeling in front of Rumi so she couldn’t escape her gaze. Her wide, bright eyes softened. “Rumi-bear, you don’t have to pretend with us. If you’re scared, or confused, or even if you… y’know, hate pineapple on pizza, just say it. We’ll still be here.”

That earned a quiet huff from Mira, who muttered under her breath, “It does belong in the trash.”

Zoey shot her a mock glare but quickly returned her focus to Rumi, squeezing her hand gently. “See? Even if you agree with her about the whole pineapple thing, we’re not going anywhere.” Her touch held Rumi in place, warmth not just from it but from her, Zoey, keeping her safe, holding her. Rumi sucked in a breath, letting the sweet, affection and love wash over her, while Mira’s had kept her grounded in a more secure way. 

The words cracked something open in her chest. Her sleeve had slipped enough that the pressure of Mira’s palm against the fabric made her hyperaware of what lay beneath. Her breath shuddered. “I… I wanted to relapse yesterday.” The words were hushed, shame-stained. “So badly. I almost couldn’t stop myself.”

Mira’s thumb pressed gently against her wrist. Not forceful—just present. Zoey’s hands hovered by her knees, unsure if they were allowed to touch.

“And you didn’t,” Mira murmured. “That’s the part you’re not giving yourself credit for. You fought it.”

Rumi’s eyes burned. “But what if I can’t keep fighting it? What if one day I just—” She bit down on the rest, chest tightening.

Zoey reached then, sliding her fingers over Rumi’s free hand, weaving them together like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Then we’ll be there to catch you. Every single time. You don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

The necklace was caught between her thumb and forefinger, cool against her overheated skin. A reminder—Mira’s steady hand, Zoey’s eager warmth. Theirs.

Her lip trembled. “I don’t even know how to be a girlfriend. I don’t know how to… touch you, or what you expect from me. What if I mess it all up?”

That earned her a breathy laugh from Zoey, not mocking but incredulous. “Rumi. You don’t have to perform for us. We didn’t ask you to be our girlfriend because we wanted sex or perfection. We asked because you’re you. Because, I love you Rumi. We love you so much. Not the facades you try to hold, but the you we get to see and have when you're half asleep and whining because Mira left the bed, or because you really have to pee but you don't want to get up. We love the you you give us, that you trust us to see.”

“She’s right,” Mira murmured, voice low and sure. “We don’t want some perfect version of you. We want you—the one who makes tea at three in the morning when she can’t sleep, who sniffs our hair and clothes at every opportunity, who thinks she’s a burden but makes every room softer just by being in it.” Mira’s thumb stroked her wrist once, slow. “That’s who we love. That’s who I love.”

Rumi’s throat closed, a sob climbing higher than she could swallow. Her hands flew up instinctively to cover her face, but Zoey was already leaning in, wrapping her arms around her from the side. Mira shifted too, pulling her in so she was caged gently between them, warm and safe.

“I—I love you, Mira.” The words cracked as they left her, but they were honest and true, god wasn't that what she was trying to do? She looked at Zoey with wide, open and loving eyes, causing a tear to drip down her face, “And I love you, Zoey.” Rumi's face felt extra warm, not just from the sheer amount of love trying to explode out of her chest, but from the relief the tears brought—allowing tiny openings in her chest where emotions other than grief, to finally take root.

Mira's usual composed face cracked, and Rumi could see her eyes glisten with unshed tears. Zoey, on the other hand, was practically sobbing without crying, emotions spilling out without a sound, saturating the space between them with a pure, unguarded love. Rumi felt it seep into the cracks inside her, filling them with warmth she hadn’t realized she was starving for. 

“I love you, Rumi,” Zoey said, throat choking on how little the words could represent her feelings, but smiling all the same.

Mira smirked lightly, but there was an agreement on her face. “Two ‘I love you’s’ in less than five minutes? Wow, Zoey, you're really breaking your record here.”

Zoey’s smile only deepened, a mischievous softness in her eyes. “Yeah, I know. I don’t believe in saying ‘I love you too.’ It feels like I’m just echoing, like I only love you because you love me first. But that’s never the truth. I love you because you’re you. And that will always come first.”

Her words hit with a kind of finality, like they’d been carved in stone just for her. Rumi’s chest tightened, the heaviness in her ribs softening into something she didn’t have a name for.

Before she could fall too deep into the weight of it all, Mira shifted beside her. Wordlessly, she reached for Rumi’s hand, her slender fingers brushing the delicate skin of her wrist. Her eyes—dark, steady, unflinching—met Rumi’s, silently asking for permission.

Rumi gave the smallest nod, her breath shaky.

Mira lifted Rumi’s arm, so careful it made her throat close up. She pressed a slow kiss against the inside of her wrist. Then  another, just above it. And another. Each one deliberate, reverent, as if she was laying a vow across every place the world—or Rumi herself—had tried to hurt her.

By the third kiss, Rumi was trembling. By the fifth, tears were sliding down her cheeks. Mira didn’t stop, didn’t falter, her lips mapping the pale lines and hidden ridges like a cartographer of pain and survival.

Zoey held her other hand tightly, grounding her, whispering little things—“You’re safe, we’ve got you, you’re so loved”—while Mira moved higher, kissing until she reached the crook of Rumi’s elbow.

When Mira finally paused, her lips lingered there, warm against Rumi’s skin. “Every mark,” she said quietly, her voice low “is a piece of your story. And I love every part of it. Every part of you is loved by me.”

“You don’t have to be scared,” Zoey whispered, her smile wobbly now with her own tears, but still as bright and beautiful as the moon at night, soft and sweet. “We’ll show you, every day, what it means to be loved. As long as our hearts continue to beat—it’ll be for you.” 

Rumi let herself collapse into their arms, her breath hitching, her body pressed between them. Weird…she didn’t feel like a burden this time. She just felt—held. Protected. Loved.

-

The following day was anything but easy. 

Death was never simple. Suicide, even less so. It carried a silence, a weight that pressed down on the family left behind—something mourned, but rarely spoken of aloud. It was whispered about, skirted around in polite conversation, and shrouded in shame—even when the person left behind was loved and cherished. For Rumi, that weight settled over her chest like an unshakable stone. She’d survived the early loss of her mother in a car crash, a grief that had already left her wary of attachments, but Celine… Celine’s death felt different. It wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t something outside of human control. It was a choice, and that choice clawed at her ribs every time she breathed.

Rumi moved through the apartment like a ghost, sleeves pulled low over her forearms, avoiding mirrors, avoiding reflections. Mira and Zoey stayed nearby, wordless, giving her space yet pressing gently against the edges of her solitude. In Korea, family and close friends often bore witness rather than pry when someone was grieving a suicide; there was a quiet respect for the boundary between comfort and intrusion. Mira and Zoey had learned that instinctively, letting Rumi lead the pace.

When she finally agreed to leave the apartment, it wasn’t to perform some ritual or pay respects at a formal memorial. Instead, Mira led her down the familiar streets, past small shops and alleys lined with paper lanterns, the city’s noise muted under a steady drizzle. Zoey’s hand brushed Rumi’s at the smallest opportunities, a reminder that she wasn’t alone, that someone loved her even when she couldn’t see it.

They passed a small neighborhood shrine tucked under a ginkgo tree. The tile roof was chipped, a candle flickered behind glass, a faded photo of someone long gone pinned inside. Rumi slowed instinctively, chest tightening. Bowing had become second nature after childhood jesa with Celine at her mother’s grave, but this time, the bow was for Celine. Just a silent acknowledgment that she had been here, that she had mattered, that she had loved.

Mira and Zoey mirrored her, awkward but sincere, letting the ritual’s ghost settle around them. It wasn’t a full memorial. There were no offerings, no incense smoke curling into the sky, but it was enough. Just remembrance. Just presence.

The three of them stood there in quiet, letting the drizzle soak their hair and coats, letting the city hum around them. And for the first time since hearing the news, Rumi felt the edge of the panic soften, replaced by a fragile thread of connection—to Mira, to Zoey, to the memory of Celine.

It wouldn’t erase anything. The hollowness wouldn’t vanish, the echo of the gunshot in her memory wouldn’t fade. But for a moment, she could breathe. And maybe that was enough.

-

The car ride to Celine’s house felt unreal. Rumi pressed her forehead to the cool glass, watching the city blur past in streaks of neon and rain-slicked streets. Mira and Zoey flanked her, quiet, giving her room but staying close enough that she could feel the heat of their presence. Every building they passed seemed heavier, more permanent—reminders that life moved forward while some people didn’t.

When they reached Celine’s estate, the familiar door loomed ahead, and Rumi froze. Memories—sharp and unbidden—assaulted her: the late-night laughter in the hallway, the smell of coffee Celine always left lingering, the way she used to shove Rumi playfully for stepping on her favorite rug. Yes, Celine was far off the standard for an ideal caregiver, but Rumi couldn’t deny that under all the cold, heartwarming memories were made. Her chest tightened, panic tugging at her lungs. Mira’s hand found hers and squeezed gently. Zoey leaned close, murmuring something soft, almost inaudible, but the comfort anchored her enough to step forward.

Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of Celine’s life: cedarwood and old paper, a tinge of her perfume that infiltrated Rumi’s nostrils. The place was empty now, quiet in the way absence always is, but somehow the weight of Celine’s choices lingered in the air. Rumi’s fingers trailed along the edge of the counter, the backs of chairs, the shelves where knickknacks had been carefully arranged. Every object seemed like a whisper from the past.

“I—I don’t know if I can do this,” Rumi admitted softly, her voice breaking in the stillness.

“You don’t have to,” Mira said, her tone even and grounding. “We’re just here with you. Nothing else matters right now.”

Zoey nudged her shoulder gently. “And if you want, we can leave whenever. But… if you’re ready, we can just… see what’s left behind. Together.”

Rumi nodded slowly, letting herself be guided through the house. Her eyes kept darting to the little corners where Celine had left traces of her life: a notebook still half-open on the desk, pens scattered like she’d left mid-thought; a scarf draped over the back of a chair, soft and worn; photographs pinned crookedly to the wall, smiling faces caught in forever moments.

And then she found it.

On the shelf above the small kitchen counter, hidden just enough to look accidental, was a small, neatly wrapped package. Rumi froze, stomach twisting. She lifted it carefully, almost reverently, brushing her fingers over the wrapping. The paper was soft, almost velvety, and tied with a thin ribbon. Her hands trembled as she untied it.

Inside was a small notebook, leather-bound, worn but cared for. She flipped it open slowly, heart hammering in her chest. On the first page, in Celine’s unmistakable handwriting, were the words:

“For Rumi. So you know, even when I can’t say it, I love you. Remember to live. Be brave. Be you.”

Rumi’s chest constricted. She sank to the floor, clutching the notebook to her chest, tears slipping down her face without restraint. Mira and Zoey crouched beside her, silent but present, hands brushing hers, shoulders nudging hers, grounding her in the moment.

She opened the notebook more carefully and discovered a collection of small, intimate things Celine had left for her: sketches she’d drawn, little notes tucked between pages, even a pressed flower with a note reading, “Saw this and thought of you. Keep it.” Each page was a piece of Celine’s life, her love, her care—something Rumi could hold onto now, tangible proof that even in death, Celine had chosen to leave her love behind.

“I… I can’t believe she… she thought of me,” Rumi whispered, voice trembling. “Even now… even after everything…”

Mira wrapped an arm around her shoulders, Zoey leaning close on the other side. No words came at first—none were needed. The silence was filled with the soft sound of Rumi’s shaky breathing and the faint rustle of the notebook’s pages.

Then Rumi opened to a folded piece of paper tucked at the back. Inside was a single, carefully written note:

“If you ever feel lost, look at the stars. I’ll be there, somewhere, watching you. Live bravely, Rumi. Live for you. Always.”

Her fingers traced the words over and over. Mira gently tilted Rumi’s chin, letting her meet her eyes. Zoey brushed a thumb across Rumi’s hand, nudging her to breathe. Rumi let herself collapse further into their warmth, clutching the notebook like it was the only thing keeping her afloat.

Chapter Text

The night of Rumi’s birthday was heavy with rain. Seoul’s streets glistened beneath the pale glow of streetlights, every droplet scattering into diamonds across the windshield of Celine’s car. Wipers thudded back and forth, but even they couldn’t quite keep up with the downpour. They had just gotten back from throwing her the best, and last birthday party she’d got in a very long time.

Inside, the air was tense, thick enough to choke on. Celine’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles turning white, jaw locked so tightly it hurt. She wasn’t reckless by nature—she hated driving even a kilometer above the speed limit, hated even the smallest of risks—but tonight her foot pressed the pedal harder than it should have, the hum of the engine rising with every frustrated breath.

“Say it again,” she snapped, voice sharp, cutting through the storm.

Miyeong sat in the passenger seat, her long black braid flowing down her back as she faced the window. Even in the dim, fractured light, Celine could see the redness that lined her eyes and the tracks of tears displayed on her cheeks. Her silence only stoked the fire burning in Celine’s chest.

“Say it again, Miyeong,” she demanded. “Tell me I didn’t just see what I saw.” 

Her lover—her everything—closed her eyes, shoulders trembling. Her voice came out soft, almost drowned by the rain hammering the car roof. “It was… it was a mistake.”

Celine’s laugh was hollow, bitter. “A mistake? You promised me. After Rumi was born, you said it was over with him. You said he was nothing. And now I walk in—and you’re with him again?’ Her voice cracked on the last word, fury bleeding into heartbreak.

Miyeong turned suddenly, eyes wide and desperate. “Celine, you don’t understand–”

“No, I do understand. I understand perfectly!” Celine’s knuckles dug deeper into the wheel, voice rising. “I understand that I”ve loved you since we were kids, that I’ve fought relentlessly for us against everyone who told us it was wrong, and you—you can’t even fight yourself.”

Miyeong flinched as if the words had sliced physical scars through her, but she didn’t back down. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I don’t love you? Celine, I-”

“Don’t!” Celine’s chest heaved, breath fogging the windshield. “Don’t tell me you love me when you’re still running back to him! To the man who—” She broke off, her voice strangled by the pain. “To the man who gave you what I couldn’t—Rumi.”

The name hung heavy in the car.

Miyeong’s hand twisted in her lap, shaking. “I can’t—Celine, I can’t do this anymore. My parents—my family—they’ll never accept me with you. Do you understand what that means? Every time I choose you, I lose them. I lose everything I’ve been told I have to be.” Her voice cracked. “And I’m weak. I’m so weak, Cece. I can’t carry both you and their expectations anymore.”

Celine’s vision blurred, tears mingling with the storm outside. Her heart pounded like it was trying to tear itself apart. “So what am I in all of this then? A secret? A shameful mistake you keep hidden until you can’t stand it and go running back to the perfect life they planned for you?

Miyeong sobbed, clutching her chest like it pained her. “No—you’re my heart. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. But I can’t-”

“Then choose!” Celine screamed, her voice raw, desperate and pleading. “Choose me. Choose us. Stop hiding, stop lying and just—choose me.”

But Miyeong didn’t answer. Her lips parted, her face crumpling, but no sound came.

And in that silence, Celine felt her world collapse.

Her chest rose and fell too quickly, breaths shallow and ragged. The wheel beneath her hands felt like the only thing tethering her to reality. Outside, the rain lashed harder, blurring the edges of the world.

Miyeong pressed her forehead into her palms, sobbing quietly. She wanted to vanish into the seat, away from the fury and love warring inside Celine’s eyes. “I never wanted to hurt you” she whispered, voice shaking. “I never wanted to be this person. But I… I’m drowning, Celine. Every day, I wake up and think, ‘what will my parents say if they find out?’ I think about the shame, the disgust, the way they’d disown me. And then I think of you, and how much I love you, and how much I want Rumi to grow up differently—without the lies. But I—” her voice cracked again. “I don’t know how to be brave like you, Cece.”

Celine’s throat tightened. Her hands loosened briefly on the wheel, fingers trembling. “You don’t have to be brave like me. You just have to stand beside me. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“But I can’t!” Miyeong burst out, her words raw and wounding. “I can’t be the daughter who shames her family, the mother who ruins her child’s future before it has barely even begun. I can’t choose between them and you—it’s tearing me apart.”

Celine’s eyes burned with tears she couldn’t wipe away. “So you chose him instead?” she spat, her voice a dagger. “You chose the man who represents everything you swore wasn’t real between you two. You gave me your body, your heart, your promises, and still—still—you gave him the parts of you I begged for.”

Miyeong winced at her words, a sob catching in her throat. “I didn’t love him! Don’t you see? I never loved him. I just–I was desperate, Cece. Desperate to please them—to feel normal for once. To quiet the voices telling me I was wrong and disgusting. And I failed you. I failed you so badly.”

Her words collapsed into broken gasps.

Celine’s vision swam, her grip on the wheel slipping with sweat and grief. “You don’t get it. I don’t care about normal. I don’t care about your parents. I don’t care about any of it. I care about you, Mi. And you—you keep throwing me away like I’m a sin you regret.

Miyeong’s face twisted with anguish. She reached out suddenly, clutching Celine’s arm with desperate force. “I never regretted you. Not once. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. But I don’t know how to live as both your Mi and their Miyeong. I can’t be both. And tonight—you walked in and saw me at my weakest. I ruined everything.”

Celine finally tore her eyes from the road, meeting Miyeong’s pleading gaze. For a second, the storm outside faded. All she saw was the woman she’d loved since childhood—the woman who made her laugh until her chest constricted, who sang to “their” baby girl at night, who promised forever.

“Then why,” Celine whispered, her voice hoarse, “wasn’t I enough?”

Miyeong’s tears spilled faster, blinding her. “You were. You are. I just—I wasn’t strong enough to love you the way you deserved.”

The words cracked something inside Celine.

Her hands shook on the wheel, vision blurred by her own tears. “Miyeong–“ she started, but her voice drowned beneath the sudden glare of headlights cutting through the fog from the rain.

The car lurched as Celine swerved, too late. Tires screeched, the sound shrill and merciless against the storm. Miyeong’s scream tore through the vehicle, her hand gripping Celine’s arm in a death grip.

And then—impact.

A violent jolt, metal folding in on itself. Glass shattering, rain and shards spraying like knives. The sound of twisting steel, the brutal snap of bones against unforgiving force.

And then—silence.

When Celine opened her eyes, blood blurred her vision. Her chest screamed with pain, but she turned away, desperate. Miyeong was slumped against the seat, face pale, eyes half-open and unfocused. Blood ran down her temple, soaking into the fabric of her shirt.

“No, no, no—Miyeong! Miyeong!” Celine’s voice broke as she reached, shaking her lover’s shoulders, her hands slipping with blood. “Stay with me—please, stay with me. I’ll fix it, I’ll fix everything, just don’t leave me. Please, my love.”

Miyeong’s breaths came shallow, already fading. Her lips moved faintly, a whisper drowned by the rain and wall of sirens growing near. And then, her chest stilled.

Celine’s scream ripped through the wreck, through the storm, through the night—before everything went black.

And though she lived, some part of her died right there with Miyeong.

The smell of antiseptic lingered, sharp and cold, the kind of scent that clung to your skin no matter how long you stayed. Celine blinked awake to the sterile white ceiling above her, her ribs aching with every breath. Machines hummed softly beside her bed, the rhythmic beep of the monitor, a cruel reminder that she was alive in a world she didn't want to be in. 

She turned her head, sluggish from the medication, only to be met with the emptiness of the chair beside her. For a split second, she thought she’d see Miyeong curled up there, grinning through exhaustion the way she used to when Rumi was a baby. But there was only silence.

Then the memories came crashing back—glass, rain, the sound of Miyeong’s last breath.

Her chest tightened, panic clawing its way out of her throat. The monitor quickened, shrill in the still room, as her body fought against the truth. Nurses rushed in, adjusting wires, pressing her shoulders gently to keep her down. “Celine Nim, you need to stay calm,” one of them said softly. “Your ribs are fractured. Breathe slowly.”

But Celine didn’t want to breathe.

Her lungs burned, her tears spilling hot down her cheeks. “Where—where is she?” Her voice cracked, strangled by the weight of grief. “Where’s Miyeong?”

The nurses exchanged a look, the kind that said everything without needing the inclusion of words. One finally spoke, her tone gentle but firm. “I’m sorry. She didn’t make it.”

Her world caved in.

Celine’s scream shook her battered ribs, tore through her broken body until the sound collapsed into silence. She turned her face away, choking on her sobs, her fists clenching the scratchy sheets.

For weeks, she stayed there. Her body healed, but her spirit did not. Every visitor came and went—Miyeong’s parents, cold and disapproving even through their mourning; held Rumi close. Her father fled after hearing the news. And Rumi herself, too young to understand fully, her tiny fists reaching toward the woman she’d grow up to resent.

Celine didn’t hold her right away.

She couldn’t. Every time she looked at Rumi, she saw Miyeong’s eyes. She saw the promise of a life they were supposed to raise together, and the betrayal that had torn it apart. She saw the accident, over and over again.

And in her darkest nights, she whispered to herself the truth no one else knew:

It was my fault

If she hadn’t fought with Miyeong, if she hadn’t raised her voice, if she hadn’t turned her eyes away from the road—Miyeong would still be alive.

That guilt festered, year after year, until it poisoned everything. She buried it beneath laughter, beneath her sharp tongue, beneath her restless need to prove she was still worth something. But it never left her.

It was a shadow that followed her into every relationship, every drink, every sleepless night. And as much as she wanted to be strong for Rumi, a part of her believed Rumi had no reason to love her—not after what she had done. Plus, she found comfort in knowing she had not affected Rumi’s ability to love completely. She saw how loved her Rumi was by two strangers who found deep admiration for her. Rumi would be fine. Rumi would be loved. Rumi is loved.

Rumi’s fingers trembled as she turned the last page of Celine’s diary. Her chest ached, the words she’d just read weighing down like stones on her ribs. The final entry ended mid-sentence, the ink smudged by water stains—tears, maybe.

She closed the cover slowly, her hand lingering on the worn leather as though it were something fragile, alive. Her reflection caught faintly in the glossy surface, eyes red, lips pressed thin.

The silence of the room pressed in, heavy with truths she was never meant to carry. Her mother’s betrayal. Celine’s guilt. The accident that had rewritten both of their lives before she was old enough to even understand what love was. 

But what she had understood was the immense pressure her Umma was under. The dreadful chains her grandparents trapped her in. And—her father.

The diary didn’t soften the details. Her father had not simply appeared in Miyeong’s life by coincidence. He had been sent. Her grandparents saw Celine as a disease—something to be corrected, cut out, silenced. And when whispers and threats didn’t work, they chose a more insidious method: a man who could provide Miyeong with the life they wanted her to live.

Her father was not love. He was strategy.

Miyeong had written to Celine about it, shame bleeding through every word. At first, she resisted. She clung to Celine, to the girl who made her laugh until her ribs hurt, who sketched futures with her in the dark, who pressed their foreheads together and whispered that the world couldn’t touch them if they stayed together. But the pressure was relentless. Her parents’ voices were louder than her own. They paraded her father before—polite, ambitious, unshakably “safe.” He represented everything she was supposed to want.

And Miyeong, with her soft heart and restless insecurities, cracked.

It wasn’t love that pulled her toward him. It was exhaustion. The weight of being told she was wrong, disgusting, shameful—it hollowed her out until she longed for silence. And for one brief, weak moment, he gave her that silence.

That moment became Rumi.

Miyeong had sworn to Celine afterward that it was over—that she would never, never betray her again. And for a few years, she held to that promise with desperate devotion. She chose Celine every day, against her family, against her fear, against herself. She wanted to believe that was enough.

But weakness crept back in. Years later, her parents caught wind of her “failure” to move on, and again they pushed her father back into their orbit. And again, in the cracks of her Umma’s fear, she stumbled.

Rumi’s breath hitched, her throat tightening as her eyes scanned the last lines. Miyeong had confessed everything in those letters, every mistake, every failure to be strong. She hadn’t loved him. She had only ever loved Celine. But she had been too afraid to hold that love openly—and it had cost them both everything.

Rumi’s vision blurred, her throat raw from holding back sobs she didn’t want to release. It was too much—too heavy for her chest, too jagged for her to swallow.

“Rumi?”

Zoey’s voice came first, soft and hesitant. When Rumi lifted her gaze, both girls were already there in front of her, watching with wide eyes. Mira’s brows were drawn, lips pressed tight, while Zoey’s hands fidgeted nervously at her sides.

“I…” Rumi’s voice cracked, the word breaking apart. She pressed a hand to her face, trying to cover the trembling, but the tears spilled anyway. “It’s my fault. All of it—it feels like it’s my fault.”

Before she could spiral further, Zoey rushed forward. She dropped to her knees in front of Rumi and gently tugged her hands away from her face. “Hey, no. No, don’t do that.” Her voice was thick but steady, her eyes bright with worry. “None of this—none of what happened—is your fault.”

Rumi tried to argue, but Zoey only shook her head, stubborn. “You were just a kid, Rumi. You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t choose their mistakes.”

Mira crossed the room slower, but when she reached them she sat down beside Rumi without a word, her presence heavy and grounding. She slipped her arm around Rumi’s shoulders, pulling her gently against her side. “Zoey’s right,” she said quietly, her deep voice low and steady. “Your mother’s choices, your grandparents, your father… and Celine’s pain. None of that is on you.”

Rumi shuddered, leaning into Mira’s warmth, but the ache in her chest only grew sharper. “But if I wasn’t born-”

“Don’t.” Mira interrupted firmly. Her hand tightening on Rumi’s shoulder, her tone carrying a rare edge. “Don’t say that. You matter way too much. To us. You’re our world Rumi.”

Zoey sniffled, her thumbs brushing away the tears on Rumi’s cheeks with her usual gentleness. “If you weren’t here, we wouldn’t be here either. I wouldn’t get to hear you laugh, see you smile and blush at Mira’s terrible flirting-”

“Hey,” Mira muttered softly, but there was no bite in it.

Zoey smiled through her own tears. “We wouldn't get to love you how you deserve. And I don’t ever want to imagine that.”

Rumi’s chest heaved with another sob, but this time she didn’t try to swallow it down. She let it out, burying her face against Mira's shoulder as Zoey wrapped her arms around the both of them, clinging tight like she never wanted to let go.

And thought the ache didn’t vanish, she could feel the tiniest thread of light weaving through the darkness—held steady by her girlfriends anchoring her on either side.

The silence after her sobs faded felt unbearably heavy, but it wasn't empty. It was filled with the warmth of Mira’s steady arm around her shoulders, with Zoey’s smaller hands still cradling hers, unwilling to let go.

Rumi stared at the diary on the table along with Celine’s other possessions she had meant to go through, its leather cover glistening faintly in the dim light. Just looking at it made her chest tighten all over again. Her throat burned, her body trembling with the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could eliminate.

Mira followed her gaze, then spoke up. “You don’t have to keep going through everything right now.”

Zoey nodded quickly, already brushing her thumb over the back of Rumi’s hand. “Yeah. You’ve done enough today. More than enough. Celine left all this for you, so it’s not going anywhere. You don’t have to hurt yourself digging through everything in one night.”

Rumi swallowed, a fresh wave of guilt pressing into her ribs. Part of her wanted to protest, to argue that she owed it to Celine to face every truth right now. But her body betrayed her. Her eyelids felt like lead, her limbs weak, her heart heavy with grief. She couldn’t. Not tonight.

Mira squeezed her shoulder and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. “Come on princess, let’s go home”

Rumi nodded, chest warming at the pet name as she let them guide her to her feet. Mira steady on one side, Zoey tugging lightly at the other. The three of them moved through the house quietly, Mira locking the door behind them before leading the way out into the cool night air.

By the time they arrived at their apartment, Rumi was barely awake, her head heavy against Mira’s shoulder. She didn’t argue when they steered her straight to the bedroom, didn’t complain when Zoey fussed with the blankets to tuck her in, didn’t even try to hold back the few tears that slipped free once her head hit the pillow.

Mira brushed the hair from her face, her deep voice low and soothing. “Sleep, princess. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Zoey pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering something silly and soft about how Derpy missed her already and how it’s her turn to clean up his poop. And with both of them so close, their warmth stray and real, Rumi finally let herself surrender to the exhaustion pulling her under.

She didn’t dream of deaths or hospitals. Instead, two angels, one with soft pink hair, the other, with ebony hair, infiltrated her thoughts. A steady hum of love waiting for her.

The next morning came too soon.

Rumi stirred slowly, her body heavy with a sleep that had been more collapse than rest. Sunlight pushed gently through the curtains, warming the edges of the bed. She blinked groggily, the blur of the night settling like a weight in her chest. The diary. The sobbing. Mira’s arm around her. Zoey’s bright, shaky smile.

Her eyes drifted across the room, finding it empty. A strange hollow panic bloomed in her stomach—until she noticed the folded note resting on her nightstand.

We’re so sorry princess, we didn’t want to wake you but we went to class. We’ll check in soon. There’s food on the stove, eat something. Please. —M & Z

Rumi exhaled shakily, clutching the blanket tighter. She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to depend on their presence in the last few weeks—how their warmth had been the only thing holding her up when she felt herself unraveling. 

She rolled onto her side, staring at the ceiling. It had been a few days since everything with Celine, and Mira and Zoey hadn’t left her side once. They had skipped all their classes just to sit with her through the silence, through the tears, through the times she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

But love like that came with consequences. A letter had arrived from their professors—a warning that their absences had been noticed. Another day or two, they’d risk their scholarships. They hadn’t told Rumi directly, but she knew. How could she not? She’d gotten those same messages until they gave her time off because of Celine’s death. And this morning, for the first time since everything fell apart, they hadn’t been able to stay.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it with sluggish fingers, squinting at the screen.

Zo🐢❤️

Just checking in :3 

Are you awake? Do you want tea?    

Sent 8:14 AM

Rumi blinked at the time, her lips quirking faintly. Barely an hour into their classes, and Zoey was already checking in.

At 8:28 her phone buzzed again.

Zo🐢❤️

Okay I’m picturing you still sleeping but I hope you’re cozy. Don’t forget breakfast when you wake up <3

Sent 8:28 AM

I know it’s only been 14 minutes but I miss you okay :(((((((((((
Sent 8:42 AM

Rumi huffed out a laugh, small and incredulous, her chest tightening in a different way. She could imagine Zoey in her lecture, phone hidden under the desk, waiting just long enough to make it almost fifteen minutes before caving and typing another message.

Mira, on the other hand, didn’t text. She called—short, efficient check-ins once every hour on the dot. Her deep voice steady, asking if Rumi had eaten, if she was drinking water, if she needed her to come back right away. Rumi could tell Mira was worried about pushing too much, about smothering her, but her care came through anyway, threaded into every word.

Rumi set the phone back down, curling into the blankets again. Her chest still ached, her head still spun with the diary’s revelations, but she wasn’t alone. Even when the apartment was empty, she wasn’t alone.

And for now—that was enough to get her to sit up, wipe her eyes, and consider what came next.

The quiet of the apartment pressed in again, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Rumi sat at the counter with a mug of tea she hadn’t touched, her phone lying face-down in front of her. She debated crawling back into bed, but a sudden vibration made her flinch.

The name flashing on the screen froze her.

Jinu💀incoming facetime audio…

For a moment, she considered letting it go to voicemail. Her chest was already tight enough without trying to fake her way through small talk. But Jinu wasn’t just anyone. He was the only person outside Mira and Zoey who had really tried to stay close, even when she pushed him away.

She swiped to answer. “…Hello?”

“Rumi.” His voice was warm, a little too bright for how raw she felt. “You sound like you just woke up.”

Her lips pressed into a line. “Maybe I did.”

There was a beat of silence, then a soft sigh. “I’ve been worried about you. I wanted to give you space, but… I can’t keep sitting here pretending like everything’s fine. Are you okay?”

Rumi’s throat constricted. The easy answer—I’m fine—sat at the tip of her tongue, but it crumbled before she could say it. “Not really.”

Jinu hummed low, as if confirming what he already knew. “Then come out with me tonight. Just for a bit. There’s this new little place near campus, it’s chill, not too crowded. We’ll get drinks. Doesn’t have to be alcohol if you don’t want it.”

Rumi’s first instinct was to refuse. The thought of people, of laughter and chatter, made her stomach twist. “Jinu, I don’t think—”

“Rumi.” His voice softened, but the insistence was still there. “I’m not asking you to be fine. I just… I want to see you. To sit with you somewhere that isn’t your room. Even if it’s only for an hour.”

She closed her eyes, pinching at the hem of her sleeve. The idea terrified her—leaving the apartment, being seen, pretending to be normal. But the thought of disappointing him tightened her chest in a different way.

“I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to dress up. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Just… let me be there for you, Rumi. Please?”

Her silence stretched long enough that Jinu sighed again, this time more carefully. “If it gets too much, we’ll leave. No questions, no pressure. I just… I don’t want you to keep drowning alone.”

Rumi’s eyes burned. Her hand tightened around the phone, nails pressing into her palm. Finally, she exhaled shakily. “…Okay. I’ll come.”

Jinu’s relief was audible in his laugh. “Good. I’ll pick you up at seven. And if Zoey or Mira give me the death glare again, at this point, I’ll just take it as a compliment.”

That earned him the tiniest huff of a laugh, fragile but real. “They don’t… glare.”

“They do. I swear Zoey’s got laser eyes.”

The club was smaller than she expected—low ceilings, warm lighting, a scattering of booths and high tables. No pounding bass, no raucous shouts—just a quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. Jinu hadn’t lied; it was cozy, almost unthreatening. 

Still, Rumi kept her sleeves tugged down, her posture tight as they slid into a booth near the back.

“See? Not so bad,” Jinu said, flashing her a grin as he flagged down the server. “One round. If you hate it, we’ll leave.”

Rumi nodded stiffly, her fingers twisting in her lap. She hadn’t planned to drink much. Maybe one. Maybe none. But the first sip of the cocktail Jinu slid across the table was sweeter than expected—soft, almost playful on her tongue.

The second went down easier.

By the third, her shoulders had loosened, her laugh coming quicker than it had in weeks. Jinu looked relieved, even proud, watching her like she was a delicate thing finally unfurling.

“You’re… you’re really good at this,” Rumi said, gesturing vaguely with her half-empty glass. “Convincing people to do things.”

He snorted. “That’s just friendship, Rumi. I want to see you live. Even if it’s just for one night.”

Her smile faltered for half a second, but the alcohol was warm in her blood, buzzing in her veins, making it easier to push the heaviness away. She reached for her phone instead.

“Who’re you texting?” Jinu asked.

“Not texting. Calling,” Rumi corrected, her words slurring slightly. She grinned as she pressed Mira’s contact. “You’ll see.”

Jinu blinked. “Rumi, wait—”

Too late. The call connected.

“Rumi?” Mira’s deep voice answered first, cautious, low like she was bracing herself.

“Hellooo, Miraaa,” Rumi sang into the phone, her grin widening at the sound of her own voice. “Guess what? I’m out! Like, actually out. With people. Isn’t that crazy?”

There was a pause. Then Zoey’s voice, quick and nervous: “Wait—you went out? Where? Are you okay? Do you need us to come get you?”

Rumi giggled, slumping back in the booth, her free hand waving in the air. “No, no, nooo. I’m great. Better than great. Actually, did you know I have, like… the most beautiful girlfriends in the entire universe? Because I do. Like… you two are insane. Out of this world. If I wasn’t me, I’d be sooo jealous of me.”

Jinu’s brows shot up. He mouthed, What the hell?

On the other end, Zoey made a startled sound—half a laugh, half a gasp. “Rumi, are you… drunk?”

“I am… tipsy,” Rumi corrected with a solemn nod, though her words came out in a happy rush. “But it’s fine, because I’m brave now. So brave. I could totally kiss you both in public, right now, and not even care. You hear me, Mira? I’d—” she hiccupped, snorting at herself, “—I’d grab your face and kiss you. In front of everyone. Who cares what they think? Not me. Nope.”

Jinu nearly choked on his drink, covering his mouth with his hand, eyes darting around as though someone else might’ve overheard.

Mira’s voice came back, low and strained. “…Rumi.”

“Yes, Miraaa?” she purred, leaning her cheek into her hand, a loose smile tugging at her lips.

“Where are you?”

Rumi laughed again. “Wouldn’t you like to know weather boy.”

Zoey’s voice jumped in, flustered but bubbling with poorly hidden delight. “Oh my god, this is my fault for showing her brainrot. Mira, she’s flirting. With us.”

“Zoey,” Mira warned, but her voice had gone softer, almost shaken.

Jinu mouthed again, this time slower, What the fuck is happening right now?

Rumi ignored him completely, twirling her straw with newfound bravado. “I’m telling you, I’m amazing at this girlfriend thing. You guys just don’t know it yet. But I’ll show you. I’ll make you so happy. Happier than anyone else could.”

Her voice cracked just slightly at the end, but the alcohol smoothed over it, twisting it into more of a vow than a confession.

Mira exhaled, long and rough, like she was fighting to keep steady. “We’ll pick you up. Stay where you are.”

“Nooo,” Rumi whined, drawing out the syllable as her head tipped against the booth. “I’m fine. Jinu’s here. He’s like… my babysitter. A very confused babysitter.”

“I can confirm that,” Jinu muttered under his breath, running a hand down his face.

Zoey’s laugh bubbled through the phone, light and unrestrained. “Okay, okay. Just don’t go starting clubfights or seducing strangers, okay?”

Rumi gasped, mock-offended. “I would never. I only seduce you two.”

This time, even Mira couldn’t hide the sound of her breath catching.

Jinu pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Unbelievable,” before taking another slow sip of his drink.

Rumi froze mid-sip, then gasped, nearly sloshing her drink. “No way. No freaking way.” She slapped the table, wide-eyed. “It’s—oh my god—it’s Love Story.”

“Zoey! Mira!” she shouted in the phone’s mic. “LISTEN. This is our song. Do you hear it? OUR. SONG.”

Zoey’s laughter filled the line, bright and squeaky. “Oh my god, she’s gone.”

But Rumi was already swaying in the booth, belting the opening lyrics loud enough to make nearby tables turn their heads. “Romeo, take me…” She broke into giggles, dragging her hand down her flushed face. “But like—” she dropped her voice lower, a teasing lilt slipping in, “—you’re not Romeo. You’re Mira. And Zoey. And honestly? Way sexier.”

Zoey wheezed into the phone, practically choking on her laughter. “Did she just—Mira, are you hearing this?!”

Rumi leaned into the table, whispering into the mic like it was some great secret. “Do you know what I’d do if you were here right now? Hm?” She licked her lips unconsciously, voice dipping. “I’d pull you both under this table and show you how much I love this stupid song. With my mouth.”

“RUMI.” Mira’s deep voice thundered through the speaker, but it cracked, betraying her.

Zoey’s laugh came out strangled, nervous, high-pitched. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god—”

Rumi giggled, pleased with herself, tilting her head coyly even though they couldn’t see her. “What? I’m just being honest. I’ve thought about it, y’know. Especially after I heard you two that night having-

“Okay, you’re done,” Jinu hissed, trying to grab the phone, horrified.

Rumi yanked it back, whining. “Nooo! Don’t ruin this for me!”

“I did not sign up to be fourth-wheeling your phone sex. Jinu groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I am never drinking with you again.”

By the time Mira and Zoey arrived at the club, Jinu looked like he’d aged a decade. He was hunched forward, face buried in one hand while Rumi swayed in the booth beside him, humming to herself as though nothing in the world was wrong.

“Thank God,” Jinu muttered as soon as he spotted them. “Take her. Please. Before she makes me drink bleach.”

Zoey slid in on one side of the booth, Mira standing stiffly at the other. Both of them looked at Rumi like she was a lit fuse.

Rumi’s face lit up the moment she saw them. “My girlfriends!” she squealed, throwing her arms out like a child demanding a hug. “Finally! Do you know how long I’ve been suffering without you? This—” she gestured wildly to Jinu, “—this guy doesn’t even let me flirt in peace.”

Zoey tried to smother her laugh, cheeks red. “Because you were very much not being subtle, my love.”

Mira’s eyes, though, didn’t leave her. They were sharp, unreadable, and Rumi—through the haze of alcohol—suddenly remembered what she’d blurted out. Her stomach flipped, but the buzz kept her from panicking. Instead, she smiled slyly.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?” she teased, pointing a wobbly finger at Mira. “Because I said I heard you. That night. With Zoey. I wasn’t supposed to hear, but I did. And…” Her grin curled lazy and flirtatious. “I liked it.”

Zoey’s breath caught, colour rushing to her face so fast it nearly matched Rumi’s. “Rumi—”

Mira’s jaw tightened. She crouched slightly so her gaze was level with Rumi’s, her voice low and steady in that way that made it feel like a warning. “You shouldn’t be saying this out loud. Especially like this.”

Rumi only leaned forward, chin in her palm, eyelids heavy with intoxicated confidence. “But it’s true. You sounded so good, Mira. And Zoey…” she tilted her head Zoey’s way, lips tugging into a smirk, “—the way you begged? God, I thought about it for days.”

Zoey nearly choked on her own spit, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god—”

“Okay.” Mira exhaled through her nose, controlled but strained. “We’re leaving. Now.”

She reached for Rumi’s arm, but Rumi only giggled, slipping out of her grasp and sliding dramatically across the booth into Zoey’s side. Her cheek pressed against Zoey’s shoulder as she whispered, “I’m not in trouble, am I? ‘Cause… I wouldn’t mind a punishment. Especially from you two.”

Zoey froze, wide-eyed, looking up at Mira in panic. Mira’s expression was stone—except for the faintest, betraying twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“Up,” Mira said firmly, extending her hand again. “Before you say something that gets you in trouble for real.”

Rumi pouted but eventually let them haul her to her feet, swaying between them. As they guided her toward the exit, she slurred with a sloppy grin, “You’re so hot when you’re mad, Mira. And Zoey, you’re just… hot always. God, how’d I get so lucky?”

Behind them, Jinu slumped against the table, muttering, “Good luck with that. She’s your problem now.”

The ride home was quiet except for Rumi’s occasional humming, her head bobbing from one shoulder to the other like a pendulum between Mira and Zoey. Every so often she’d murmur something flirty—soft, slurred confessions that made Zoey’s cheeks burn and Mira’s grip tighten on the wheel.

Halfway through, Rumi leaned over the center console, her breath warm against Mira’s ear. “You know what I want right now? Not ramen. Not sleep.” Her lips curled into a drunken smile. “I want you. Both of you. Right here, right now.”

Zoey squeaked, hands flying up like she could physically catch the words before they landed. Mira’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, her voice cutting through the air sharp and sure.

“Rumi. No.”

Rumi blinked at her, confused, pouting like a child denied candy. “Wha—why not? Don’t you want me?”

“Of course we do,” Zoey said softly from the back, reaching forward to brush a hand over Rumi’s shoulder. “But not like this. You’ve been drinking. You can’t make choices about that right now.”

“I can,” Rumi insisted, her words wobbling with her breath. “I want to. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks—”

Mira cut her off, her tone unshakable. “That doesn’t matter. If you’re drunk, the answer is always no. Always.”

The finality in her voice made Rumi still. For a moment she looked like she might argue, lips parted in protest—but then her face crumpled, not with anger, but with exhaustion. A lump formed in her throat, and she slumped back into the seat, eyes glassy.

Zoey’s hand stayed on her shoulder, gentle. “It doesn’t mean we don’t want you,” she whispered. “It means we love you too much to take advantage of you like this. When you’re sober? We can talk. We can… figure it out together. But tonight, love, we’re just taking care of you.”

Rumi’s head lolled against the glass, silent tears slipping free. She wasn’t even sure if it was the rejection, the alcohol, or everything she’d been carrying since Celine—but the weight of it pressed down all the same.

By the time they reached the apartment, she was quiet, pliant, letting them guide her inside. Mira steadied her at the counter while Zoey grabbed a glass of water. They worked in unspoken tandem—shoes off, hair tied back, soft encouragements whispered even as Rumi kept her head low, shame knotting in her chest. Mira crouched in front of her, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. “You didn’t ruin anything,” she said firmly, like she could see the spiral forming behind Rumi’s eyes. “You’re ours. And nothing you said tonight changes that.”

Zoey returned with the water, sliding it into her hands with a grin that was too shaky to hide her nerves. “Drink, Rums. Then we’re tucking you in.”

But Rumi ignored the cup Zoey pressed into her hands. Instead, she tilted her head back against the couch cushions, gaze darting between them. “Can I at least…,” she slurred, lips tugging into a crooked grin, “get a kiss?”

Zoey’s eyes went wide. “Oh—uh—” She glanced at Mira, who was standing rigid with her arms crossed.

Rumi leaned forward suddenly, her palm finding Zoey’s cheek. Her lips brushed clumsily against Zoey’s, the kiss sloppy, heated, desperate—one sided. She tried to press harder, her tongue teasing the edge of Zoey’s lips—

“Rumi.” Zoey pulled back, breathless, her hand on Rumi’s wrist. Her voice was soft but firm. “Nuh-uh. Not like this.”

Rumi blinked at her, confusion and hurt swimming in her unfocused eyes. “But I want to—”

Mira crouched down in front of her, her voice low but steady. “We’re not doing this tonight. You’ve been drinking. You’re not in control right now.” Her thumb brushed a tear off Rumi’s cheek before it could fall. “When you’re sober, if you still want a kiss, then we’ll talk. But not tonight.”

Rumi’s lips trembled. For a second, it looked like she might push again—but then the fight drained out of her. She slumped back against the couch with a defeated whimper. “You don’t want me…”

Zoey immediately shook her head, sliding closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Wrong. We want you way too much. That’s why we’re saying no. Because if we said yes right now, it wouldn’t be fair to you. The tea theory, Rumi”

Mira disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bowl of instant ramyeon, steam curling upward. She set it on the table in front of Rumi. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

Rumi picked at it slowly, her movements clumsy but obedient. Mira and Zoey sat on either side of her, murmuring encouragements until she’d gotten a few bites down.

When she finally set the chopsticks aside, Zoey shifted behind her, sliding her fingers gently through Rumi’s hair. “Here,” she whispered, starting to massage her scalp in slow, steady circles.

Rumi melted instantly, a sigh escaping her lips as her eyes fluttered shut. “Feels so good…” she mumbled, her words fading into a soft hum.

Mira pulled a blanket over her lap, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. “Sleep, baby. We’ll be right here when you wake.”

“You… you’ll really be here when I wake up?” Her voice was small, vulnerable, almost trembling. “Last time… last time you weren’t.”

Zoey’s chest tightened at the words. She cupped Rumi’s face, brushing hair behind her ear. “Hey, baby,” she said softly, her eyes earnest. “I’m right here. I promise we won’t leave you this time.”

Rumi’s brow furrowed. “Promise?”

Zoey grinned, a mischievous glint mixed with sincerity. She extended her pinky. “Pinky promise.”

Rumi blinked, a small smile tugging at her lips despite her exhaustion. “You… you mean it?”

“I mean it,” Zoey said firmly. Then, teasingly but with intent, she turned to Mira. “Mira. You pinky promise too.”

Mira let out a low, resigned hum, but her eyes softened. She reached over, looping her pinky with Zoey’s, then with Rumi’s. “Pinky promise,” she murmured, her deep voice carrying weight.

Rumi let out a shaky laugh, finally letting her head sink fully into Zoey’s chest. “Okay… okay. Then I’ll sleep.”

Zoey’s fingers continued to massage her scalp gently, Mira’s arm steady and protective around her. 

Rumi allowed herself to drift into unconsciousness without the nagging fear that she’d be left alone.

The morning sunlight felt like tiny hammers against Rumi’s skull. Her head throbbed, her stomach churned, and every sound—the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of traffic—seemed amplified. She groaned, rolling over, only to be met by Mira’s steady gaze and Zoey’s sympathetic frown.

“You okay, princess?” Mira asked, her tone gentle but firm. “You look like a tornado hit you.”

“I… I hate everything,” Rumi muttered, muffled into the pillow. Her hand pressed to her forehead as if sheer willpower could dull the pain.

Zoey nudged her with a teasing grin, despite the worry in her eyes. “You’re suffering hardcore. We should get you a hangover drink. Something magical, restorative. You know—liquid salvation.”

Rumi cracked one eye open, squinting suspiciously. “Uh… yeah… like… what?”

Mira leaned back slightly, a smile tugging at her lips. “Where do you want it from? Name it, and we’ll get it for you.”

Rumi swallowed thickly. “Maybe… I don’t know… somewhere… good?”

Zoey’s grin widened, eyes sparkling. “I have the perfect idea. How about… Le Rumi Café?”

Rumi froze, her eyes going wide as a blush spread across her cheeks. Her mind immediately went to all sorts of far too suggestive interpretations, heat rising to her ears. “L… Le… what?” she stammered.

Mira, ever the straight-shooter, raised an eyebrow. “It’s a café, Rum. Really. You know… drinks, pastries… not… anything else.”

Rumi’s blush deepened, and she ducked her head into the pillow, muttering, “Oh my god… I—”

Zoey laughed, brushing a strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “Yes, Rumi, really. It’s actually called Le Rumi Café. Thought it’d be fitting. You get a drink at a place named after you.”

Rumi peeked out, still flustered but a little amused despite the pounding in her head. “You… you’re serious?”

Mira nodded, a hint of amusement in her deep voice. “Very serious. You want to pick your drink, or should we surprise you?”

“I… I’ll pick…” Rumi said, though the corner of her mouth twitched with a grin. Even through the hangover haze, she felt a little spark of warmth at their thoughtfulness.

Zoey pressed a quick kiss to Rumi’s temple. “Good. I’ll carry you if you start wobbling with those ramyeon legs, I promise.”

Rumi’s laughter came out shaky, weak, but real. “Don’t… don’t you dare.”

And with that, the trio headed out, Mira supporting her side, Zoey fussing with her hair and occasionally adjusting her hoodie, and Rumi trailing somewhere between mortified, dizzy, and oddly giddy at the coincidence of the café’s name.

The bell above the café door chimed softly as they stepped inside. Warmth hit Rumi immediately, a pleasant contrast to the harsh morning sunlight and the lingering throb in her skull. The smell of espresso, pastries, and faint vanilla filled the air.

“See? It’s totally legit,” Zoey whispered, guiding Rumi to a small booth near the window. “You can sit. I got the corner seat for maximum comfort and minimum wobbling.”

Rumi slumped into the chair, resting her face briefly on her folded arms. Her cheeks were still pink, either from the residual flush of embarrassment, the hangover, or both. “I—uh… this is… really…” Her words faltered, and she peeked up at them with bleary eyes. “You didn’t… mean that name like…”

Mira gave a low chuckle, shaking her head. “Nope. Just a café. Promise.”

Zoey nudged her with an elbow, grinning. “Though, admit it, your brain did take it somewhere… interesting, didn’t it?”

Rumi groaned into her arms again, muffled laughter escaping her lips. “Shut up, Zoey. I’m… too hungover for this judgment.”

The barista appeared, notebook in hand, and Zoey leaned forward immediately. “Can we get one of everything named after her?” she said with a grin. “Just kidding… Rumi, what do you want?”

Rumi blinked, dizzy and slightly flustered. “Uh… I don’t… just… something… cold? Sweet? You choose…” Her hands twisted nervously in her lap, mind swimming between the lingering embarrassment and the throbbing in her head.

Mira reached across the table, brushing a loose strand of hair from Rumi’s face. “Something sweet, then. Hot chocolate? Smoothie? Coffee?”

“Cold… chocolate,” Rumi mumbled, voice hoarse, finally looking up at them with a small, tentative smile. “Please.”

Zoey’s grin softened, and she leaned over to ruffle Rumi’s hair gently. “Cold chocolate, coming right up. You’re going to feel human again in, like, five minutes.”

Moments later, their drinks arrived, topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate syrup, and Rumi let herself sip. The cold sweetness was bliss, sliding down her throat and chasing away the last of the pounding headache. Zoey reached over, gently massaging the base of Rumi’s skull as she leaned against her shoulder. Mira stayed close, hand resting on the table near Rumi’s, keeping her grounded. The warmth, the quiet teasing, and the tender attention were all Rumi needed right then.

Her eyes fluttered shut as the caffeine and chocolate worked their magic, and for the first time since the night before, Rumi let herself drift, safe in the presence of the two people who would never let her fall alone.

Chapter Text

Mira never really had much to hold on to.

Not her family, who only ever offered money in place of warmth. Not her brother, whose presence in her childhood was nothing more than a shadow of superiority she could never quite escape. Her parents smiled for photographs, hosted galas in their expensive home, and signed checks that covered every material desire she could possibly name. But Mira had never been kissed on the forehead goodnight. Never been told “I’m proud of you” without a clause attached. Never been loved.

Love, she realized early, was a language her parents either never learned or never bothered to speak to her.

So she learned to stop asking and instead clung to the one place where the silence in her chest broke: the dance studio.

The first time she stepped into that space, she hadn’t been chasing freedom. She was running. Running from the echo of her brother’s derisive voice, from her mother’s sharp corrections about posture, and from her father’s endless chastising. But the polished wooden floors, the smell of resin and sweat, the thrum of bass through the speakers—it all felt like something alive, something that might actually embrace her in a way her family couldn’t.  

When Mira danced, she wasn’t her parents’ daughter or her brother’s shadow. She was a version of herself her family never bothered to uncover.

And maybe, she thought, if she worked hard enough, she’d not only command the attention of anyone that mattered but she’d finally find something that was hers entirely.  Something that couldn’t be stripped away.

That’s when she noticed her.

Zoey.

A whirlwind in the shape of a person, laughing even as she stumbled through choreography. Her cheeks were flushed, hair stuck to her forehead, her body loose in a way that should’ve looked untrained but somehow looked effortless. Everyone else in the room was polished, striving, desperate for perfection—but Zoey? She was messy. Joyful. Alive.

Mira hated her instantly.

Not with true venom—though she tried to convince herself it was—but in that visceral way people hate the sun when they’re freezing in the shade. Zoey was warm where Mira was cold. Open where Mira was sealed shut. She seemed to belong without even trying, and Mira had spent her entire life trying to belong and is still failing.

And yet… she kept drifting towards her. Mira couldn’t help but fixate on her movement. 

As the instructor called counts, feet shuffled, arms sliced through the air, breaths came sharp. Mira knew every step, every placement, but her gaze kept flickering sideways. Kept catching on the girl who smiled when she missed a beat, who clapped for others when they got it right. Who moved with a kind of recklessness Mira both envied and resented.

By the end of class, Mira’s shirt was plastered to her back with sweat, her legs trembling faintly from the intensity. She pulled her bag over her shoulder, intent on leaving without a word, when a voice bubbled up behind her.

“Hey! You’re, like… really good.”

Mira turned, stiff. Zoey was there, grinning wide, like speaking to Mira was the most natural thing in the world. “Your lines are crazy clean. I kept trying to copy them, but I nearly fell on my face twice.”

Mira blinked at her. Compliments weren’t foreign—she’d been praised by teachers, peers, strangers at competitions—but this felt different. And she didn’t know what to do with it at all.

“…Thanks,” Mira muttered finally, her voice clipped. She adjusted her strap, already angling her body away.

Zoey tilted her head, unfazed. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

Mira narrowed her eyes, heat prickling under her skin. “I try not to waste words.”

That earned her a laugh, bright and unbothered, echoing off the studio mirrors. Mira hated that her chest tightened at the sound.

“Cool. Guess I’ll just have to waste enough for both of us,” Zoey said with a wink, already moving past her to grab her water bottle.

Mira watched her go, jaw tight, telling herself she was annoyed. Telling herself she didn’t care.

But later, when she lay awake staring at her ceiling, Mira found herself replaying that laugh in her head—like a rhythm she couldn’t shake.

The girl didn’t smile. Not once. Not during warmups, not when she nailed the combo on the first try, not even when the teacher called her “our most precise mover.” Nothing. A blink, maybe. A nod. But no smile.

Zoey had noticed her the second she walked in—tall, sharp, put-together in that way that made everyone else look sloppy. Her movements weren’t just clean; they were surgical. Exact. And that was fascinating, because Zoey didn’t move like that. Her brain thrived on ecstasy, on filling counts with personality instead of precision, on bending choreography until it felt alive. Where Mira was a blade, Zoey was fire—unpredictable, sprawling, impossible to contain. Different styles, different instincts. 

Still… she couldn’t stop staring.

Okay, correction: she tried not to stare. She tried to focus on the beat, on the teacher’s voice, on remembering that counts came in eights (which, duh, of course they did, but her brain still insisted on four-four-four-four like she was playing the drums in her head). She tried to remember left from right, which was embarrassingly hard sometimes because why couldn’t people just say “this way” while pointing? She tried to think about the fat, juicy burrito she’s going to order after this. Her logic is, the current cardio she’s doing will cancel it out, because if she didn’t go to dance today she would’ve had the burrito anyway. 

But every time she tried to focus on anything else, her eyes flicked back to Mira.

Sharp Mira. Stone-faced Mira. Moves-like-a-knife Mira.

She wasn’t just good—she was… mesmerizing.

When Zoey almost tripped trying to copy her arms, she laughed at herself, loud enough that a few people turned their heads. She didn’t care. The sound had made Mira look over—just for a second, but it counted.

And that was when Zoey decided: she was going to make Mira smile… somehow.

By the end of class, Zoey’s hair was plastered to her forehead, her lungs buzzing like she’d swallowed static. She should’ve just grabbed her stuff and gone home, but the thought of letting Mira disappear without saying something—it made her chest itchy. So she marched right up to her.

”Hey! You’re, like… really good.”

Her voice came out too loud. It always did when she was excited. She cringed internally but pushed through, because if she stopped mid-sentence, her brain would spiral and Mira would think she was weird (which, okay, she was, but still).

Mira turned slowly, like Zoey had interrupted some private ritual. Up close, she was even prettier. Prettier in that untouchable way. Prettier in that ‘don’t look too long or you’ll burn yourself’ kind of way. Zoey’s brain took a snapshot and filed it somewhere permanent, because she knew she’d be replaying this exact angle of Mira’s face later when she was supposed to be focusing on homework.

“Your lines are crazy clean,” Zoey blurted, words tumbling out faster than she could control. “I kept trying to copy them, but I nearly fell on my face twice.”

Mira blinked at her. Not unfriendly. Not warm either. Just… blinking.

Oh no. Silence. Zoey hated silence. Her brain hated silence. Silence meant you were supposed to fill it but what if you filled it wrong and then you ruined everything? Her chest buzzed, her knee bouncing before she realized it, and she bit her tongue hard enough to sting just to keep from rambling.

“…Thanks,” Mira said at last, clipped and short.

Zoey exhaled in relief. A response! That was a win.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” she asked, because her mouth was already moving again.

Mira’s brows furrowed. “I don’t like to waste words.”

Zoey’s laugh burst out, uncontainable. She didn’t mean to laugh that loud, but it was so—so Mira. Perfectly Mira.

“Cool,” she grinned, cheeks flushed, “guess I’ll just have to waste enough for both of us.”

The second the words left her mouth, her brain went: Oh my god, cringe, too much, too flirty, abort abort— but Mira didn’t snap back. She just looked at her like she wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or… something else.

That was enough. Enough to keep Zoey buzzing all the way home, already planning her next move.

Because Mira might’ve thought she could keep walls up forever. But Zoey? Oh Zoey loved climbing.

It all started with a count.

“One, two, three, four—” the instructor’s voice carried over the pounding bass, clipped and sharp, cutting through the music like glass.

Mira moved exactly as she always did: perfectly. Every extension, every placement of her heel against the slick wooden floor, was calculated to precision. Her body was an instrument, fine-tuned through years of repetition, through discipline most people would never understand. She didn’t miss counts. She didn’t slouch. Her reflection in the mirror was everything she demanded of herself: sharp, polished, untouchable.

But then—

There it was.

Movement, just outside the frame she allowed herself to look in. Someone not following the choreography exactly as written. Zoey.

Mira tried not to notice, but it was impossible. Where Mira snapped, Zoey flowed. Where Mira carved angles, Zoey bent them into curves. She wasn’t sloppy—no, Mira would’ve dismissed her if she were sloppy. She was alive. A kind of alive Mira had trained herself out of being years ago.

“Five, six, seven, eight—”

The class surged forward across the floor, sneakers squeaking, bodies twisting in unison. Mira locked her eyes on her own reflection, keeping her frame tight, her jaw set. But Zoey’s energy bled into the edges of her vision like light spilling under a door you couldn’t shut.

And she was smiling. Who smiled while doing this? Mira’s chest tightened with irritation. Dance was supposed to be about discipline and technicality. It was survival, performance, a battlefield where you didn’t give anyone the chance to see you slip.

Zoey moved like she hadn’t been told that rule.

By the third round, Mira could feel her timing slipping. The tiniest fraction off, but she knew it. She clenched her jaw harder, pushing herself to overcorrection. Precision was all she had, and she refused to let some messy, laughing stranger unravel her in the middle of the studio.

Then the instructor clapped, voice booming. “Across the floor, find partners.”

Mira’s stomach dropped. She hated partners. Partners meant vulnerability. They meant handing over control. She liked her lines solitary and her space uninvaded.

Still, she didn’t flinch when Zoey practically bounced over, grin stretching wide like they were already friends.

“Guess we’re stuck together,” Zoey said, brushing sweat away from her forehead with the back of her hand.

Mira raised a brow, crossing her arms. “Just don’t trip me.”

Zoey’s laugh was too loud, too easy. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you look good.”

Heat pricked along Mira’s neck. She already looked good. She didn’t need help. She opened her mouth to snap back but the music started again before she could.

And then—chaos struck.

The choreography demanded they stay in sync. Mira tried to force the tempo, push the movements into rigid clarity, but Zoey refused to be boxed in. She spun with extra flair, leaned a beat longer, stretched an arm farther than necessary. Every time Mira tried to pull the routine tighter, Zoey’s energy pulled it looser, brighter, wilder.

And the thing that infuriated Mira most?

It worked.

When they spun together, Mira’s clean edges made Zoey’s freedom look intentional. When Zoey bounced out of a move, Mira’s stillness became contrast instead of control. They balanced each other in a way Mira hated to admit was… striking.

“Again,” the instructor barked.

They did it again. And again. And by the fifth time, Mira’s lungs burned—not from the cardio, but from the way her body kept betraying her. Every time Zoey brushed close on a turn, Mira’s focus faltered. Every time she heard that stupid laugh by her ear, her rhythm slipped.

She was losing control.

When the music finally cut, Mira stood straighter than necessary, jaw clenched tight. She wouldn’t let anyone see that she’d been rattled. Her reflection in the mirror was once again perfect. But her pulse was still racing.

Next to her, Zoey clapped her hands together, bouncing on her toes. “That was fun!” she said, cheeks flushed, hair sticking in messy strands around her face.

Mira wanted to scoff. It wasn’t fun. It was exhausting. Distracting. Dangerous.

But when she turned her head—just slightly—and caught Zoey grinning at her like she’d already cracked some impossible code, Mira felt something shift, traitorous and sharp, somewhere deep inside her chest.

She wanted to dance with her again.

The class finally ended with the sharp clap of the instructor’s hands. A rush of relief swept through the room as everyone sagged, sweaty and breathless, grabbing water bottles and collapsing against the studio walls.

Mira didn’t collapse. She never did. She stood tall, posture unyielding, towel draped neatly over her shoulder as she dabbed at the sweat along her hairline. Appearances were everything. If she bent, if she slouched, it meant she was as tired as the rest of them. She refused to give anyone that satisfaction.

But her eyes betrayed her.

They kept sliding (against her will, of course) toward the corner of the room—toward Zoey.

Zoey was sprawled flat on the floor like the hardwood was her personal mattress, one arm flung dramatically over her forehead. She looked completely unbothered by the dozens of eyes in the room, chest rising and falling fast as she laughed at something another dancer said. Her cheeks were flushed pink from exertion, hair sticking out of its bun in wild strands, and Mira hated—hated—that she found the sight magnetic.

She turned her head quickly, sipping water, pretending she wasn’t looking. Pretending she wasn’t interested.

Of course, that was exactly when Zoey noticed her.

Their eyes met across the mirror-lined room. Zoey’s grin widened instantly, like she’d been waiting for this moment. She lifted a hand and waved—waved, like they were old friends instead of two people who’d barely exchanged one sentence during class.

Mira stiffened. Her instinct screamed to look away. To break eye contact. To retreat into the fortress of indifference she’d spent years building. But something kept her gaze locked.

And then, before she knew it, Zoey was on her feet.

In three long strides, she crossed the room, still panting, still grinning. “You were so good, partner,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Mira didn’t pick up a single hint of jealousy or condescension. Which was… weird.

She raised a brow, voice clipped. “I know.”

For a second, Zoey blinked at her. Then—laughter. Not mocking, but warm, rolling, bubbling out of her like she couldn’t help it. “Okay, okay. Confidence. I like that.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. She didn’t need Zoey’s approval. She didn’t need anyone’s approval. Yet the heat in her chest from the praise betrayed her.

Zoey leaned a little closer, lowering her voice like they were sharing some secret. “But you’re too stiff.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed, the words slicing straight into her pride. “Excuse me?”

Zoey didn’t flinch. If anything, her grin grew. “You move like you’re trying to win a fight with the music. You gotta let it win sometimes.” She tilted her head, studying Mira with infuriating focus. “I saw you watching me. You know I’m right.”

Mira bristled. She wanted to deny it. She should deny it. But her silence was already an admission.

Zoey’s eyes glinted like she’d scored a point. “See? I knew it.”

Mira crossed her arms, nails digging lightly into her skin. “You’re sloppy.”

Zoey gasped dramatically, hand flying to her chest. “Sloppy? Excuse you. This—” she gestured wildly to herself, sweat and all, “—is style.”

Against her will, Mira’s lips twitched. Barely. But Zoey caught it.

“Oh my god,” Zoey said, eyes going wide with mock astonishment. “Did I just make you smile?”

Mira straightened instantly, erasing the expression like wiping chalk off a board. “No.”

“Yes, I did!” Zoey’s laughter bubbled out again, pure and unrestrained. “Wow. I should get a medal or something. First day, and I cracked the ice queen.”

“I’m not an ice queen,” Mira snapped before she could stop herself.

Zoey tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Mhm. Sure.”

There it was again—the feeling Mira hated. The one that made her pulse quicken, her carefully constructed walls feel paper-thin. She should’ve walked away. She should’ve shut this down.

Instead, she found herself saying, quietly, almost like a challenge: “If you think you can teach me to ‘let the music win’… prove it.”

Zoey blinked. Then her grin softened into something different—almost reverent. “Deal.”

“Prove it.” Mira hadn’t meant to say it, but the words had slipped out, sharp and deliberate, daring Zoey to cross a line.

Zoey, of course, didn’t hesitate.

The studio had mostly emptied out, only a few stragglers lingering to stretch or chat. The music still hummed faintly from the speakers, a pulsing beat that seemed to sync directly with Mira’s heartbeat.

Zoey clapped her hands together once, then slid easily into the rhythm, her hips loose, shoulders rolling as though she’d been born inside the beat. “See? The music isn’t a checklist. It’s not something you conquer. It’s… a conversation.” She spun lightly, letting her body fall into shapes that Mira would never allow herself to take. “You talk, it talks back. You give, it gives.”

Mira folded her arms. “That’s vague.”

Zoey laughed, breathless. “Yeah, because you’re supposed to feel it, not diagram it, genius.”

Before Mira could scoff, Zoey stepped closer—too close—and caught her wrists. Mira tensed instantly, but Zoey’s grip was light, coaxing rather than commanding.

“Okay,” Zoey murmured, eyes locking onto hers. “Pretend I’m the music.”

Mira’s breath hitched. “Excuse me?”

Zoey tilted her head, mischief dancing in her expression. “Go on. Try to fight me.”

Against every rational bone in her body, Mira let Zoey guide her arms upward, into the shape of the choreography. Their hands brushed, and even that small contact sent an electric current skittering under Mira’s skin. Zoey didn’t stop—she pushed Mira into the beat, nudging her hips, her shoulders, tugging her out of the straight, rigid lines she always clung to.

“You’re too stiff here,” Zoey whispered near her ear, hands ghosting over Mira’s shoulders before she gave them the smallest shake. “Loosen up. Like this.”

Mira shivered despite herself. “I’m not stiff.”

Zoey smirked. “Oh, you’re very stiff.” Her tone was light, teasing, but there was something deeper threaded beneath it, something Mira didn’t dare name.

They moved together across the floor, Mira reluctantly letting Zoey pull her into a looser rhythm. Every correction came with a brush of fingertips—a nudge at her elbow, a tap at her waist, a guiding press at the small of her back. It should’ve infuriated her. Instead, it unraveled her.

“Better,” Zoey said, grinning when Mira’s body finally loosened into a swing. “See? I knew you had it in you.”

Mira scowled, though her cheeks burned. “I don’t need your validation.”

“Sure,” Zoey said easily, circling around her. “But you do like it.”

Mira’s pulse spiked but she didn’t answer.

The music shifted into something slower, deeper, and Zoey’s movements adjusted seamlessly. She leaned close again, voice low. “You don’t always have to be perfect, you know. Sometimes… messy is more beautiful.”

Mira never imagined she'd hear the words “messy” and “beautiful” in the same sentence, let alone complimenting each other.

Her whole awareness was consumed by Zoey.

Everywhere Zoey touched, Mira burned. A nudge at her hip, a tug at her wrist, the slide of warm palms along her arms to loosen the tension she didn’t even realize she held. 

“Relax” Zoey murmured, her breath brushing Mira’s ear as she guided her through a turn.

Mira’s jaw clenched. “I am relaxed.”

Zoey’s laugh was soft, playful. “You say that like someone’s holding a knife, and is about to stab you or something.”

Mira glared, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her, twitching upward. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Zoey said, stepping closer, “you’re still letting me touch you. So, I guess not insufferable enough”

That shut Mira up. Her throat felt dry, her heartbeat too loud. She should’ve pulled away. She should’ve created space, rebuilt the walls Zoey kept slipping through like smoke. But when Zoey spun her again, hands brushing at her waist, Mira followed the momentum instead of resisting.

The mirror caught them at just the right angle: Mira, sharp lines softening, Zoey all movement and colour, orbiting closely. They didn’t look like two strangers dancing. They looked like something else entirely.

“Good job,” Zoey whispered, and Mira swore her knees almost buckled at the warmth in her tone. “You feel that?”

“I feel… unbalanced,” Mira admitted, hating how raw it sounded.

Zoey’s hand stayed at her waist, steadying. “That’s good. Means you’re finally letting go.”

The music dipped into a slower beat. Zoey didn’t step back. She leaned in instead, movements languid now, drawing Mira with her into something that felt less like choreography and more like gravity. Mira’s breath stuttered when Zoey’s forehead nearly brushed hers, their rhythm faltering for the first time—not because of a mistake, but because the air between them had thickened.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Mira’s body betrayed her, swaying closer, her lips parting just slightly. Zoey’s gaze flicked down—quick, undeniable—and Mira’s chest tightened. For one terrifying, electrifying second, she thought Zoey might actually close the space.

But then—

A shout from across the studio: “Hey, we’re locking up in five!”

The spell shattered.

Zoey blinked, stepping back half a pace, her grin slipping into something softer, almost sheepish. “Guess class is over.”

Mira swallowed hard, straightening, arms crossing as if she could fold the moment away. “Good.”

Zoey tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Good?”

Mira forced her expression back to neutral. “You proved your point.”

Zoey smirked, backing toward her bag. “Nah. That was just the warm-up.” She winked before turning away, leaving Mira standing there, pulse racing, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Zoey finally slowed, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat catching the light. She was grinning like she hadn’t just been through three hours of drills. Mira hated how endearing it looked.

“Guess that’s it for today,” Zoey said brightly, tugging her bag strap over her shoulder. She leaned closer with that same irrepressible energy, her hair damp, her eyes sparkling. “Oh my God did you see how Yoonchae did that aerial? I swear she has a death wish, or worse—someone has a deathnote.”

Mira’s jaw ticked, but her throat betrayed her with a sudden dry swallow. She shifted her arms, crossed tighter, masking the heat creeping up her neck. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Okay, but I’m making perfect sense.” Zoey said , turning towards the door. She got halfway before spinning back around with a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god—my phone!” She darted to the corner where her charger still dangled from the outlet, nearly tripping over her own shoes in her haste.

Mira sighed. “You’re going to forget your head one day.”

Zoey retrieved it triumphantly, slipping it into her pocket with a sheepish grin. “Not when I’ve got you watching out for me.”

The words landed harder than they should have, and Mira found herself looking away, pretending to busy herself with her own bag. Zoey, oblivious, waved and bounced out the door, humming some tune under her breath.

It wasn’t until Mira was finally gathering the last of her things, letting the studio quiet settle around her, that she spotted it—a tall green water bottle with turtles painted all over, abandoned on the bench. Of course.

She stared at it for a long moment, irritation and something else tangling inside her chest. The girl never seemed to keep track of anything. Mira huffed, grabbing it quickly before she could think better of it. She could’ve left it there, let Zoey figure it out tomorrow. But the thought of Zoey wandering around thirsty and possibly panicking, made her legs move before her brain caught up.

She pushed out the studio doors, scanning the dimly lit street. Zoey was just a little ahead, humming to herself as she adjusted her bag strap, a loose bounce in her step.

But she wasn’t alone.

A man leaned casually against the lamppost, blocking part of the pavement in Zoey’s way. He wasn’t much older—mid twenties, maybe—but there was an edge to the way he smirked at her, stepping forward when Zoey tried to move around.

“Where you headed, pretty thing?” he drawled, his voice too loud for the empty street.

Zoey froze, the brightness dimming just slightly in her posture. “Uh, home,” she said lightly, shifting to sidestep him again.

He mirrored her step. “Aw, don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.” His eyes flicked down her frame, lingering in a way that made Mira’s stomach churn. “Pretty girls like you shouldn’t be walking alone, you know—it’s dangerous.”

Zoey laughed, but it was short and awkward. “I’m fine, thanks.”

That was enough. Mira strode forward, her steps deliberate, each one snapping silently against the pavement.

“Is there a problem here?” Her voice cut clean through the air, low and firm, demanding attention.

Both heads turned. Zoey’s eyes widened slightly with relief. The guy, however, just smirked wider, sizing Mira up. “Relax, sweetheart. We’re just talking.”

Mira’s gaze sharpened, her body slotting instinctively between him and Zoey. She didn’t raise her voice, but her tone was ice. “She said she’s fine. That means the conversation is over.”

He snorted, glancing at Zoey again. “What, you’re her dog now?”

“No.” Mira’s eyes narrowed, her posture radiating calm danger. “I’m someone who doesn’t tolerate stupid fucks who can’t take no for an answer.”

The silence stretched. Mira didn’t blink, didn’t shift, didn’t move. The weight of her stare was unflinching, and eventually the guy clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath as he backed off down the street.

Only when his footsteps faded did Mira exhale slowly, unclenching her fists. She turned to Zoey, eyes scanning her up and down. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? Because I swear to god—”

Zoey blinked at her, cheeks flushed. Then a grin spread across her face—bright, grateful, a little dazed. “You just totally scared him off. That was… wow. You’re kind of terrifying.”

Mira huffed, but the tension in her jaw didn’t ease. “Terrifying or not, you’re too damn careless.”

Zoey’s smile softened, “Really though, thank you, no one has… no one has ever stood up for me before. It’s nice knowing someone has my back.”

Mira’s brow furrowed before she could stop it. No one has ever stood up for me before.

The words lodged themselves in her chest like a stone. Did that mean Zoey had gone through this before—guys cornering her, pushing at her boundaries—and nobody had said anything? Friends? Classmates? Strangers who just walked past?

Did she even have friends? Surely she does, she’s nice and friendly and pretty and, well—Zoey. What is there not to love?

The thought made Mira’s stomach twist. She hated it. Hated imagining Zoey, all smiles and brightness, left to deal with situations like that alone.

Her frown deepened, and Zoey noticed immediately. “Hey,” she said softly, nudging her with her elbow. “Don’t look so serious. It’s fine now.”

Mira shook her head, jaw tight. “It’s not fine. It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

Zoey tilted her head, a little startled by the edge in Mira’s voice. Then, more gently, she offered, “But it did. And you were there. That’s what matters.”

Mira stayed quiet, but her thoughts kept spiraling. She had a million questions she wanted to ask—How many times? Who else? Why didn’t anyone… but she bit them all back. She didn’t want to pry, didn’t want to make Zoey relive anything she didn’t want to talk about.

Instead, she settled for walking closer, close enough that her arm brushed Zoey’s now and then. A silent promise, one she wasn’t sure she knew how to say out loud: As long as I’m around, you’ll never be left to deal with it alone again.

Zoey glanced up at her then, and when she smiled, it wasn’t the teasing one she usually wore—it was smaller, more fragile, but warmer somehow. Mira’s chest tightened all over again.

The next few days blurred into something Mira hadn’t expected.

It started with a casual exchange in the studio—Zoey bouncing up to her after practice, cheeks flushed from dancing, blurting, “We should swap numbers! You know… in case I forget my stuff again.”

Mira had rolled her eyes but handed over her phone anyway. She told herself it was practical. But when Zoey’s name lit up her screen that night with a simple made it home safe :) Mira caught herself smiling like an idiot in the middle of brushing her teeth.

From there, it became routine. Mira found herself watching Zoey’s name appear on her phone every evening—little updates, jokes, photos of diabolical good combinations Zoey conjured in her kitchen (which reminds Mira, she has to try pilk). Sometimes Zoey would spam Mira with song lyrics until she finally responded with a single “stop.” Of course, Zoey never did.

At the studio, they gravitated toward each other without realizing it. Mira would find Zoey plopping down beside her during break with crossed legs and  wide grins.

“Want to grab coffee after this?” Zoey asked one evening.

Mira hesitated. “Coffee?”

“Well that’s what I said right?”

Mira shot her a look, but she ended up following anyway. And then another time. And another. Until “coffee hangouts” became their thing. Sometimes they sat side by side at the window, watching the streetlights glow, Mira sipping plain black coffee while Zoey ordered drinks with whipped cream and sprinkles. Other times they stayed until the shop closed, Zoey doodling in Mira’s notebook while Mira pretended not to mind. (it made her heart flutter seeing Zoey so focused on drawing turtles)

Then ice cream followed. That was all Zoey’s fault. “Life is short, Mira. You have to say yes to ice cream.”

So Mira said yes—again and again—despite not having much of a sweet tooth. They sat on curbs and shared cones, Zoey’s laughter carrying on the breeze as she smeared a dab of melted ice cream on Mira’s cheek just to hear her groan in annoyance.

It felt… easy. Dangerous, but easy.

Then came the text one Friday afternoon:

Zoey

found smth fun for us to do :D

Mira

define fun…

Zoey

bounce house!!🎉🎉

Mira

 isn’t that for kids?

Zoey

pls pls pls pls pls pls :,(

PLEASE

Mira stared at her screen for a full five minutes before finally sighing and typing:

Mira

fine

Zoey

ZOEY WINS AGAIN WOOOO

That Saturday, she found herself standing in front of a brightly coloured inflatable arena, arms crossed, regretting every decision that had led her here. Kids shrieked in delight around them, parents stood chatting nearby, and Zoey was practically vibrating beside her.

“This is gonna be amazing,” Zoey whispered, tugging Mira’s wrist toward the entrance.

Mira dug her heels in. “I’m too tall. I’ll pop it.”

Zoey laughed so hard she nearly doubled over. “Yeah that’s not how it works. Now c’mon.”

Mira shook her head, muttering under her breath, but Zoey’s pleading eyes—wide, shining, impossible to resist pleading eyes—made her stomach flip. And Mira realized, with quiet horror, that she’d rather be thrown into the bounce house itself than ever tell Zoey no.

So she followed. And it was ridiculous. Mira’s long limbs made her stumble, while Zoey bounced like she had wings on her shoes, Subway Surfers style.. They crashed into each other again and again, laughing so hard Mira’s stomach hurt. At one point, Zoey shoved Mira lightly, sending her sprawling onto her back, and then collapsed beside her, both of them breathless with laughter.

Mira turned her head, and Zoey was right there—hair sticking to her forehead, cheeks flushed pink, chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. Their laughter quieted into something softer, the space between them suddenly charged.

Zoey’s smile lingered, but her eyes flicked to Mira’s mouth. Just once.

And Mira felt something snap inside her.

She leaned in before she could talk herself out of it, brushing her lips against Zoey’s in a kiss that was tentative, brief—but it set her whole body alight.

Zoey froze for a heartbeat, then melted into it, her hand finding Mira’s arm as if to steady herself. The bounce house shifted beneath them, kids’ laughter echoing around, but in that moment, all Mira could focus on was the warmth of Zoey’s lips, the way her laugh had died into a breathless hum against her.

When they finally pulled back, Zoey blinked at her, wide-eyed, dazed.

“…I knew bounce houses were magical,” she whispered.

Mira groaned, burying her face in her hands. But she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

And just like that, the kiss changed everything. Not all at once—not with fireworks or declarations—but in small ways. The texts grew longer, the hangouts lasted later, the silences between them became comfortable instead of sharp. Mira had never meant to let someone in. But Zoey… Zoey had barreled through every wall she’d built and made herself at home there.

And now—years later, sitting cross-legged on the carpet of their apartment, watching her girlfriends squabble over who called UNO first—Mira couldn’t help but marvel at how far she’d come from that girl in the studio who thought she had nothing to hold on to.

Zoey was pouting dramatically, waving her card in the air. “I definitely called it before you!”

Rumi’s brow arched, cool as ever. “Please. I’m not deaf. You hesitated. That hesitation is defeat.”

Zoey gasped like she’d just been stabbed. “Mira, back me up!”

Mira only leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at her lips. From that first water bottle, to the bounce house kiss, to this… She hadn’t planned any of it. And yet here she was—surrounded, chosen, loved.

She’d never say it out loud, but watching them argue over something as silly as cards filled a space in her chest she’d once thought would always stay empty.

Mira leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, amusement tugging at her mouth. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Zoey scrambled across the carpet and leaned against her, peering up with big, pleading eyes. “Mira, please. You love me. You wouldn’t let me suffer like this.”

Rumi snorted. “She also loves me AND she knows that watching you CLEARLY lose is not letting you suffer. That’s called patience.”

“Rude!” Zoey threw a cushion at her, which Rumi caught with infuriating calm.

Mira sighed, pretending exasperation as she grabbed Zoey’s card and set it down. “You did hesitate,” she admitted.

Zoey’s jaw dropped. “Traitor!”

Rumi smirked in triumph, settling back with her cards like she was reclaiming her throne. Mira’s lips twitched. It was absurd, this argument, but as she sat wedged between Zoey’s dramatic warmth and Rumi’s quiet victory, she realized she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Zoey sulked for about thirty seconds before wriggling closer, head dropping onto Mira’s shoulder. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” she muttered.

Rumi chuckled, eyes flicking up from her cards, a small blush painting her cheeks. “She’s not wrong.”

Heat crept up Mira’s neck, but she masked it by tugging Zoey back upright. “Play the game.”

“Okay, okay—my turn,” Zoey said, grinning suspiciously as she slapped down a wild card.

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even have that colour.”

“Yes, I do.” Zoey was too quick to answer, her grin stretching wider.

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice was calm, warning.

Zoey blinked innocently. “What? I would never cheat.”

Mira leaned over and plucked the card straight from her hand. “This is blue. You just said red.”

Caught red-handed, Zoey gasped like she’d been betrayed by fate itself. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Rumi smirked. “She’s on the side of justice. Unlike you.”

Zoey groaned and flopped back onto the carpet, one arm dramatically covering her eyes. “Two girlfriends and not a single ounce of loyalty.”

Rumi calmly placed her card down. “If you weren’t a cheater, you wouldn’t need loyalty.”

Zoey gasped theatrically. “Lies, I tell you! Lies!” Her words were punctuated with wild gesturing, and a Derpy appearing from behind the couch to climb on Zoey. She huffed, hands automatically reaching down to pet him. “At least someone is loyal to me.”

Mira shook her head, trying to stifle her smile, but Zoey noticed anyway. In an instant, Zoey had rolled over, holding Derpy to her chest, grabbing Mira’s hand and clutching it to her heart like a knight swearing fealty. “Fine. If you’re not loyal, then at least admit I’m a better cook than Rumi.”

Mira’s lips parted, caught between laughter and exasperation. “Zoey—”

Rumi cut in, voice dry as stone. “You’re pathetic.”

Zoey tilted her head toward her, eyes wide and mischievous. “Okay maybe, but you really do suck ass at cooking Ru.”

Rumi’s façade cracked just enough for a small huff of laughter to escape.

Mira looked between them, their ridiculous banter, their warmth filling every corner of the room, and she realized—not for the first time—that she didn’t mind being caught in their tug-of-war. Because at the end of the night, it always ended the same way: Zoey curled against her shoulder, Rumi pressed against her side, the three of them tangled up like gravity itself had tied them together.

And as Rumi laid down her final card with a smug, “UNO,” Mira found herself smiling again, quietly, deeply, the way she had that first night Zoey’s name lit up her phone.

“I hate this game,” she declared, even as she shuffled closer to Mira’s lap like a stubborn cat refusing to give up attention.