Sana excuses herself from her home with a gentle tap on her mother's shoulder, an elaborate getup of running shoes, tracksuit and even sport headphones as well as a lie. With a final reminder to "put enough sunscreen on" or "bring a hat", she ignores her mother and begins to jog out of the gate.

As soon as she thinks she's far enough from her mom's prying eyes, she slows down exponentially, dragging running shoes against the pavement. As per, except this time, she's actually tired and oh god is she not prepared for the seniors' physical examination in less than a month’s time.
 

She pulls out her phone, eyes instantly glued to the screen, bumping against elderly strangers as she ambles her way over to her favourite park. As she stumbles out hushed apologies to the grandmothers and grandfathers going about their day, she runs her thumb across that one chat she’s kept in her tabs the entire night.

Recalling the strain of her eyes as she occasionally unlocked and locked her phone in the pitch black of the underside of her blanket, just to have another glance at a chat that would not and could not continue, she winces, stopping just outside the secondary entrance of the park. Tears her sight away from the screen.

Sana runs her hand along the soft, eroded stone of one of the entrance’s columns, feeling the concavities of where curious children and torrential rain have made their mark. She wonders silly thoughts, thoughts about the inherent rightness or wrongness of sacrificing sleep (and her already poor eyesight) to endlessly stare at a singular message from a singular stranger. Deliberates about it, ponders on it, as her fingertips kiss the cold of the granite goodbye.

Yanking out her earphones, she chooses to take a seat on the nearest bench to the entrance, in fear of her anemia making her more fatigued than she already is. Despite the proximity to the rest of the neighbourhood, it’s quiet - the area around the secondary entrance has always been relatively quiet.

If a small girl, around two, held steady on her little wellie-clad feet by a large-bellied man had not caught her eye, Sana knows that she instead would have more silly thoughts floating about. Like, is it bad for you to pretend to stumble, or at least psych yourself into stumbling, on every other word when speaking in Korean, despite having said the exact same phrase six times?

She lets her phone rest on her lap, appreciating the far-away singing of cicadas, nearby cooing of tree sparrows, and somewhere in between, the pure laughter of father and daughter. She picks it up only when the music she’d rather not hear at the moment switches to the deep voice of someone new. So she stumbles: "H-hi...Could I uh…c-uh-talk to Momo?"

"Oh! Well, Momo-ssi had to reschedule her time with us, but she'll be back and listenin' by, say, 3?" With the unfamiliar boom of the male volunteer’s voice, Sana lets two discomforting things settle within her. The first, the less disconcerting of the two, is of the delay. Sana’s fine with this; she goes with the flow. The second, the one that irks her more (though she doesn’t admittedly know why) is the way he says her name. Or rather, the act of someone else saying her name.

Sana’s less fine with this.

"A-Oh…Okay then, uh, thank you,” she utters, this time with a less controlled stutter.

"-Wait! Before you hang up, why, name's Taejoon by the way, and if you're comfortable with talking to me, we'd appreciate some feedback on Momo's interactions with you thus far."

Again, her name. You’d see perturbation plastered on the face of a girl looking to the iridescence of smooth, water-moistened pebbles at the edge of a pond. As if, in their shimmer, they can explain why a man she doesn’t know, saying the name of a fellow volunteer she doesn’t know, irks her. Why she feels the way she does now. Why she places that much importance in the sound of the voicing of a name.

"U-Yeah, sure?" S-chan stammers out.

She can almost hear the satisfaction in the male volunteers voice as she finally replies. Caught in a sense of relief, Taejoon raises his voice in excitement (enough to warrant a notable distance between Sana’s ear and the phone), asking: "Thank you, so how many conversations have you had with her?"

They go through a typical survey. Around as typical as if she’d seen them printed on a survey sheet she’d done in school (minus the uality bit). He asks if talking to Momo has provided her with assurance about her uality or gender. He asks if Momo made attempts at helping her through her personal issues. He asks if she would recommend Momo to any of her friends if they needed guidance.

In all questions but the last, she breezes through with only a lapse in speech every now and again. In all questions but this, she doesn’t hesitate. In all questions but this, she can keep within the confines of her little box of her and Momo.

In this, the first person she thinks of is Mina, then, images of the rest of her friends follow. Because she knows Mina feels best when speaking in Japanese. And she also knows she wouldn’t exactly tell (painfully straight) Mina about Momo even if her (exceptionally straight) friend did come out to her. She knows she won’t tell any of her (remarkably straight) friends about Momo either.

She doesn’t particularly like this question, definitely doesn’t particularly like her internalised response to it, but she gives Taejoon an answer he, Momo, and all rational people would prefer to hear. In return, the man gives Sana a contented sigh she would rather not hear, his inferred satisfaction only serving to amplify her guilt.

"Momo-ssi is busy these days; many Japanese callers nowadays, but she always puts in so much care and attention for everyone she speaks to.” With only the tone of pride ingrained in each word of his praise, Sana knows that the volunteer’s bearing a wide grin.

The thought’s nearly, nearly enough to take her off the delayed realisation that Momo speaks to other people. Everyone she speaks to?

You’d see Sana, one hand buried deep into the front pocket of her tracksuit, distracting herself with the commotion of the father-daughter duo, now stood by the pond, by one retreating swan. Its pained honk, her careless giggles, his stern bellow as he reaches for the stick clasped between her hands.


"The girl's got two part-time jobs, spends eight hours a week volunteering for calls and even helps out at the centre every other weekend. Amazing, right?" Taejoon continues, as if trying to revive a conversation that’s been dead on one end for far too long.

"Oh-woah..." she manages to force herself to say. It’s weak. Sana knows it’s weak. It’s weak because Momo doesn’t just offer simple care and attention when she speaks. She offers more. It’s weak because Momo isn’t simply amazing for being such a charitable, hardworking person. She’s more.

"Yep, that's our Momo-ssi."

Our. Sana doesn’t think about this. She can’t.

So Sana's thinking about Momo again, thinking about how wonderful a person Momo is. Thinks about how this is exactly the kind of person she'd bring home to her parents after a couple of months. The exact kind of person her parents would pester for Sana to marry. The kind of person her parents would pester Sana to have kids with. If Momo were a guy, they’d love Momo. But Momo's a girl.
 

Momo's a girl, and she's a girl.

♡

"Would a pretty girl like you be interested in our skin lightening cream? It's made from one hundred percen-"

“-Oh, oh sorry, I'm not interested, really," Sana politely excuses herself from the salesgirl cradling packets of product samples in her arms, and steps away from the cosmetics store and closer to the Seongsu station entrance.


You’d see a girl in an off-sleeve checkered blouse, mouth set in a hard line with fingers jammed into denim pockets surveying indiscriminately the scene around her. You’d notice every fifth or so stranger who’d initially been about minding their own business, momentarily take note of either the annoyance on her face or her face itself. Both issues the girl herself can’t care for much right now.


Instead, Sana’s thinking about her midget friend, or rather how late she is. You’d then see a muscle in the girl’s jaw twitch. She curses herself for calling Chaeyoung a midget, but Nayeon has a way of saying certain things in a certain way that just makes certain words, phrases, associations stick to students. Letting her eyes trace the sleek exterior of a maroon vespa as it whips past her lone figure, she recounts why Nayeon wanted to gather them together in the first place.


Nayeon had one of the most concerned looks on her face she’s ever seen in the two years she’s officially known her.


Mouth slightly agape, rapidly shoving her fullscreen, full brightness, right in front of her eyes.


"Sana, we're so, so screwed! Mrs Seol wants the layout done by next Wednesday for printing and-"


Nayeon ed her phone between Sana's hands which she’d held clasped on her lap.


She placed a hand on her hip, ran the other through her and let out a guttural groan.


The boys in the front whispered.


Nayeon turned back and snapped, maybe a “Not now nerds!" as she always does.


Rested her elbows on Sana's desk, looked back at Sana and said something along the lines of "We gotta get your midget artist dream girl to finish the cover art, like, by tomorrow."


Nayeon slammed her palm against the desk, used her other hand to snatch back her phone and pointed at Sana, though not accusingly.


"Meeting. Tomorrow. You're settling the time and place, Satang. Text the group."


Sana wonders if the timing she messaged Chaeyoung and the timing she messaged the group should've been a little bit further apart, takes down a small mental note to do so if future situations arise. Hitting a button on her phone, she groans and draws her lower lip between her teeth. Eighteen minutes late.


As is with most friends of Chaeyoung’s, she wishes, half joking, half enticed, that she could have the cub in a chokehold. But, with what forbearance she has within her, she checks the clock on her phone again, this time not as a measure of how late Chaeyoung is, but rather the number of hours till she gets to speak to her.


Roughly four hours.


She gathers that that's enough time for their yearbook team to handle layout issues and approve the necessary photos over brunch.


Then Sana can handle formatting the text, proofread all three hundred and forty or so pages, compile all extra orders, and edit their superlatives page, all before Wednesday. All in Korean. Speaking of, isn't there a graded assignment for her Korean language class due Monday? And that Ethics essay draft she hasn't rectified due Tuesday? Some (knowing Mr Ok) ridiculously difficult Chemistry "pop quiz" and a experiment report due Wednesday? And not to mention homework from all subjects? Even homework for her English teacher? Who cares about Mr Im anyway? She admits that she does, somewhat. So much to do, only four days, so much to do. Only four days.


Only four hours.


"Unnie! I'm so, so, so sorry, I messed up and got off at the wrong station! I'm so sorry for being late!" Chaeyoung captures Sana and her swirling mind in a soothing hug and while mild irritation creeps up a bit, it quickly dissipates as soon as she notices the pout the younger girl pulls. Sana gathers that Chaeyoung's been having a good day however, through the girl's crystal clear pronunciation. She's thankful for that.


Taking the cub's resistant but warm hand in hers, she examines a cloudless pale blue sky assaulted with the likes of telephone lines, paint peeling off the facades of converted warehouses and bold and quirky murals on brick fronts. They walk off like that, more repeats and copies of the same distinct buildings steadily popping into view. Sana rests her cheek on the shorter girl’s newly cut locks and thinks aloud, “Why did this hipster suggest this place anyway?”


Chaeyoung lets her boot squeak to a halt, almost knocking Sana’s cheek off with a neck-spraining force and lets out a winsome growl, “Not a hipster, unnie! And I’ve always wanted to go here… I keep seeing it on everyone’s Instagrams and it looks super pretty and you said you were treating me for doing the cover and I-“


“I’m kidding, kidding Chaengie!” Sana explained, still slightly guilty from when she called her a "midget", since the younger girl's been sensitive about her height lately. It's always been second nature to her to treat Chaeyoung and Tzuyu with utmost love and concern, not only for their age but rather an air they give off. An aura that begs for your protection, in spite of how blasé they may be when getting doted on. Especially Tzuyu.


The younger between them whines and nuzzles lightly into Sana's bare shoulder, despite small bumps against her nose as they speed up, getting closer to the café. She whines again, now with a hint of longing that catches Sana off guard: "Unnie, do you ever go to a place that makes you think you really wanna bring your boyfriend there?"  


Sana presses her cheek harder against the crown of Chaeyoung's head, the strong scent of strawberry attacking her nostrils as she takes in a sharp breath. "Sometimes. I don't really think about stuff like that often when they usually decide for me," she responds, unemotionally.


Her gaze shifts from the cub to the buildings a mile, maybe two away, humming in feigned approval as her junior mumbles something about how she chose the café "because doesn't it look so cute and romantic?", because "isn't it the best place to get to know each other over coffee?"


The extent of her gaze reaches far beyond the horizon and into the blankness of the paleness of the sky as she gets reminded of her movie date next Thursday with Minho. Only a movie, she remembers, because she has an English assignment to get done by Friday. Or was it for Monday? Did she even have an English assignment due?


"Ah! I really wanna get a boyfriend, but now I've cut my hair, I don't know if any boy will think I'm cute. I'm really regretting this… Should I get extensions or something?" Chaeyoung runs her fingers through her boyish cut, resting them beneath her chest where her locks used to end a couple weeks ago. Her hand remains there, as if mourning the loss of something more than just hair.


"Silly." Sana lifts her hand to calm Chaeyoung with long against her wool-covered arm, a café's sign bearing much resemblance to what she'd checked online quickly coming into view. "I think you're cute. Besides, didn't you say you wanted to cut it like this after seeing Kristen Stewart with it?"


"I found out that she's gay- er, not that there's anything wrong with it! There's definitely nothing wrong with it, loving who you love, it's just that I don't want guys to get the wrong impression of me you know?" She catches Sana's semi-detached gaze in her own apprehensive eyes. "I-I even heard some rumors about me going arou-"


"What?! From who?"  


You'd see Sana dig her nails into the sleeves of Chaeyoung's sweater as her features contort into a wave of a multitude of emotions while her friend relays the lies she hears in whispers at school from people she doesn't know and hasn't met. You'd see the hurt in her eyes, the pain not only in the realisation of what the girl whose sheer existence brought out everything maternal in her has faced these few weeks.

But also in the realisation of how Chaeyoung, her pure, fiery little baby beast, is now fully exposed to the same ugly expectations Sana knows so, so well.



♡



" men," Nayeon retorts, taking a sip from her iced tea as she rolls her eyes at either the condensation wetting her hand or, possibly, men.


The edges of Chaeyoung's lips pull tighter into a forced smile as she slides lower into her seat, a weak hand moving to cup the side of her hot chocolate. Sana notes the increased ferocity in Nayeon's sp