Wheein/Moonbyul

~700w, fluff

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At fourteen, it’s not the drawn out, expectant silence, yawning like a gulf between herself and the other girls, as Wheein struggles to come up with an answer. Her fingers twist into the blankets uncomfortably as she runs through names in her mind, turning them over one by one. But Wheein can’t think of a single boy in class that she like likes.

“None of them are my type.” she says at last, even though Wheein’s not really sure what her type is. Only that it’s not the brash, basketball-playing boys who overtake the sleepover gossip that night.

At fifteen, it’s not the posters on her bedroom walls, all of girl groups and female soloists. Wheein spends more time than she dares to admit looking up her favourite actresses, searching for pictures and behind the scenes interviews to sate her hopeless crushes.

One day a model she follows on Instagram posts pictures of herself at a swimsuit photoshoot, and Wheein is transfixed. She’s so pretty, her muscles lithe and toned, graceful yet strong. Wheein stares perhaps just a little bit too long. But that’s not weird, right? By any objective standard, she’s beautiful.

At seventeen, it’s not the way her palms sweat when the boy who asked her out tries to hold her hand. It’s not the way she stiffens when he puts an arm around her, the weight of it heavy on her shoulders.

He’s nice, pays for her movie ticket, and his smile is admittedly charming. But there are none of the butterflies her friends gush about, no sparks, let alone fireworks. Wheein makes it a point to keep a friendly distance, and he doesn’t try to kiss her when they part ways at the train station