Tzuyu is the tide, pushes and pulls, and pushes and pulls. She must’ve been a high tide when they met for the first time, because Chaeyoung drowned, and she is still drowning in her.

What at first was a chaos of attraction and repulsion, turned into mellow motion that lulled her to sleep, to dream.

Chaeyoung likes to listen to her music when they have free time, Tzuyu likes not having to answer the billion questions trainees ask each other when they have free time. She doesn’t even understand half of the questions asked.

They sit together by association, the association of asociality.

Chaeyoung draws sometimes. She sits in the corner, pulls a notebook -that she treats like a baby, a ragged pencil case, and gets lost in her own creation.

She gets pulled off the haze when some male announces the resume of training, when cold replaces the warmth that was filling the empty space next to her seconds ago.

Later that night, she finds it hard to sleep, so she goes through her notebook, tells herself that she needs to buy a new one, and sleepily wonders who’s the celebrity with pretty face she has been drawing lately.

The next morning, her late night thoughts rush through her brain, her veins, when she looks at her reflection in the training room mirror, her muse sitting right next to her, eyes watching her own hands, and she suddenly feels like the air