Minjoo knows what people are saying.

She reads them—more than she should. More than enough that by the time OTR asked for their phones to be surrendered to the agency’s possession, she had lost sleeps over the curling anxiety in the pit of her stomach, had stopped to look into the mirror and felt a burning shame inside her chest at the reflection she saw.

But she doesn’t break.

Can’t visibly break.

In front of others, she plasters a smile and carries on. Walking—and at times, running—to catch up with others’ more confident strides. The likes of Chaeyeon, Eunbi, Yena, Wonyoung, Yujin, everyone else—they deserve their spots. They—and their skills—deserve to sit on the chairs and bear the dreams of their friends, taking every eliminated trainee’s hopes with their every step.

Minjoo can barely hold her own.

With a subtle falter in her steps, she clutches on the memories of what little praises she had gathered through the programme. It’s almost laughable; how she pathetically curls her fingers around the fading murmurs of ‘you’ve done well’. Produce 48 is over. The memories will fade. And then, and then—

She will have nothing to hold onto.

“Minjoo-yah, hold on a moment.”

Chaeyeon corners her in the practice room, shirt clad with sweats of effort; exercises which results are shown through the sleek moves and smoothly executed motions. Minjoo’s sorry excuse of a dance can’t compare—she mentally flinches at the thought of being compared at all—even though the fabric clinging onto her back is wet like someone has doused her with a bucket of water.

“Chaeyeon-unnie.”

She’s relieved that she successfully manages a smile, but there’s a slight waver to her voice that doesn’t have anything to do with the shortness of breath exhausted from the repeated attempt to master their debut song’s choreography. It stems from a place with daunting doubts inside her, and Minjoo silently berates herself for showing it.

Chaeyeon’s gaze softens, however, and there are palms pressing down on Minjoo’s shoulders.

“Come sit with me for a bit.”

Minjoo hesitates, not knowing where this conversation will go. Others have left just several minutes ago to grab lunch, leaving just the two of them behind, Chaeyeon because she claims that she needs to rewatch the latest recording of their practice, and Minjoo because she can’t bear to hang out with them when she knows she has a lot to make up for.

But Chaeyeon is already pushing her down, and Minjoo has long begun to look up to the older girl—a little before their 1000% fate, and it has only grown overtime. It means that at this point, she would follow Chaeyeon even into a dark cave uninhabited for several centuries, and sitting down is a relatively tame request in comparison, so.

“Okay,” she voices.

Chaeyeon nods, satisfied, and that’s how they find themselves sitting with their backs against the big pane of glass covering the south wall of their practice room. Chaeyeon doesn’t immediately start talking. She lets silence to envelop them for a moment, and Minjoo is familiar enough with the older girl’s habit to know better than to break it herself. She basks in the quietude, regaining her breath, relishing the short break after countlessly tripping over her feet to memorize her positions throughout their song.

There’s the slight pang again. The aching prick in her heart that constantly reminds her that she isn’t enough. Never enough.

“A choreography with twelve members is a bit hard, isn’t it?” Chaeyeon softly murmurs, pulling Minjoo out of her self-deprecation. A little. When the question dawns on her, though, Minjoo ducks her head down, already guessing that Chaeyeon is bringing this up because Minjoo is clearly falling behind.

“Yes,” she mumbles, fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

“I think everyone shares the same sentiment,” Chaeyeon airily laughs, and the sound alone compels Minjoo to look over. There’s no trace of sarcasm in Chaeyeon’s curved eyes, like she’s genuinely amused and not at all trying to guilt-trip Minjoo for her lacklustre performance.

Chaeyeon catches her eyes and grins, holding up a hand as she begins to tick away her fingers one by one,

“Yuri kept standing too close to my place, Yena almost fell over because she forgot where to go after her rap and Yujin was advancing too fast, Chaewon almost knocked Nako over twice because Nako suddenly froze mid-dance, Hyewon bumped into someone every time we attempted the crossing movement for Chaewon’s part—”

“Ah,” Minjoo blinks, trying to recall just when did these instances happen. “I… guess it’s kind of a mess.”

Chaeyeon’s grin softens into a smile. “But it’s only been a day. We will master it perfectly before we go on stage.” A hand reaches out, settling warmly over the whitening knuckles of Minjoo’s fingers.

“You will master it perfectly before we go on stage, Minjoo-yah.”

Something inside her chest that feels very much like her heart burns. It’s shame, and a cry for help, and an insurmountable amount of sorry because Chaeyeon is saying it like she believes in Minjoo, in her flailing limbs and shaking pupils every time she loses her footing.

She heavily swallows past the suffocating block in and says,

“I will—I will do my best.”

“You’re doing well,” Chaeyeon tells her, with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a pair of warm eyes not clouded with pity—only understanding. Always understanding.

“It doesn’t—” Minjoo chokes out, her sight blurring, “it doesn’t feel like it.”

She shouldn’t break down. She should have run towards their debut with a smile and a thankful attitude. She should have stood proudly and readily return all the support and love she has received—

“Are there members whose presence you can’t help but notice?”

Minjoo tries her best to focus on that; on the question, the steady lilt of Chaeyeon’s voice. She blinks back the unshed tears and murmurs,

“You and Yujin. It’s really—it’s really easy to be aware of where you are, unnie. I think I tripped over my own feet at least twice because I couldn’t help but look at you instead of—focusing on my own position.”

She chances a glance at Chaeyeon, fearing a scold upon her confession, but the older girl is still smiling. There’s a teasing glint in her eyes as she says,

“Yujin?”

Minjoo’s cheeks warm up considerably. “Her presence is strong,” she tries to defend herself, rather unnecessarily, “it’s hard to explain, but I can sense it when she’s near even before I check the mirror.”

“So let’s use that to your advantage,” Chaeyeon exclaims, the smile on her lips widening in excitement. “Use us as the hints for your position! You don’t have to pay attention to all eleven of us, Minjoo-yah. That will come naturally later, after a lot of practice. But for now, do you think it will be easier to practice your position in relation to the two of us?”

Minjoo rapidly blinks. It makes sense in her head, but—

“I think you can do it,” Chaeyeon wholeheartedly says. “How about we give it a try for a day? If it’s a success, we can reuse this method for future choreos! And if it’s a fail, then—I’ll—I’ll treat you to ice cream as an apology. How’s that?”

That startles a laugh out of Minjoo. “Why would you need to apologize, Chaeyeon-unnie?”

Chaeyeon grins, “Because it’s my idea. Besides, maybe I just want to spoil you a little.” Her hand leaves Minjoo’s fingers, coming up to ruffle her hair affectionally instead. “You really are doing well, Minjoo-yah. I’m very proud of you, I just want you to know that.”

Minjoo sniffs, and that’s a wrong course of action she has unfortunately taken. Her sniff ends with a sob, tears b her eyes faster than she can shove her emotions down , and Chaeyeon just accepts it, pulling Minjoo into a hug and reassuring circles on her back.

“You can hold onto us,” Chaeyeon murmurs, like she has noticed the slipping faith Minjoo has for herself. She probably does. Minjoo sobs harder, and Chaeyeon’s hold tightens. “We’re a team, now, Minjoo-yah. It’s okay to fall sometimes.”

No it’s not, Minjoo wants to say, but Chaeyeon’s words are strong and confident, more than they have the right to be.

“We will help you stand up again, except for when we fall with you, too.” Minjoo lets out a watery laugh at that, and there’s a smile in Chaeyeon’s voice when the latter continues. “In that case, we’ll just learn to rise back together. Okay?”

That doesn’t sound bad.

“Okay.”

That doesn’t sound bad at all.

“Then it’s a deal!”

-

“I can’t believe Chaeyeon-unnie made Minjoo-unnie cry,” Yujin loudly says when Team Lunch comes back with two sandwiches and two rolls of kimbap for the two. She mock-glares at Chaeyeon accusingly and wiggles a finger, “I’m never trusting her to you ever again.”

Minjoo softly laughs, fingers interlocking with Chaeyeon’s as the older girl makes a show of bowing to the younger in apology. Yujin’s gaze flits down towards the joined hands briefly, but it happens so fast, and Minjoo isn’t even sure of what to make of the way Yujin’s face contorts into a thoughtful frown.

“I’m going to kidnap her for the rest of the day,” Yujin announces, marching over and breaking their hands apart. “Minjoo-unnie let’s practice the choreo together!”

Minjoo throws a bemused look at Chaeyeon, who’s smirking at her knowingly like she's aware of things more than Minjoo does. Which is probably true, but doesn’t make it any less perplexing.

“I’ve helped Minjoo with the general moves,” Chaeyeon yells after their leaving steps, “she’s going to do great if you helped her add the sharper touch to her movements!”

“Roger that!” Yujin bellows in response, dragging Minjoo to an unoccupied corner. There’s laughter in her voice, happiness in the spring of her steps, comfort in the way her fingers slide in-between Minjoo’s slightly colder ones.

For a moment, Minjoo lets the doubtful voices fade.

For a moment, Minjoo shuts down the flashes of comments.

For a moment, with Yujin’s warmth encapsulating her hand—and, oddly enough, her entire being all at once—

Minjoo tries to let herself to believe again.

-

It’s not a steady rise.

She stumbles and gains bruises a lot, physically and mentally, though the latter she’s still trying to mask as much as she can. Sometimes, when no one is looking, or when the night is deep and Minjoo is left all alone with her thoughts, the feeling creeps back up. Pulling her down. Drowning her in.

“Minjoo,” Hitomi says, and Minjoo emerges from the grey clouds inside her head, blinking at the sudden call.

“Yes?”

“How do you,” Hitomi begins, puffing up her cheeks in adorable frustration as she glares holes at the printed lyrics before her, “how do you pronounce this?”

“Oh, let me see,” Minjoo says, flipping her own sheets to check the mentioned part. She hums, “Okay, let’s hear you saying it and I will try to correct if anything’s off.”

“I’m sorry,” Hitomi apologizes, regret twisting her lips into a frown. She isn’t eloquent in Korean enough to begin explaining just why she’s sorry, but Minjoo can already guess the unspoken words. She’s been running in those shoes far too often.

“Nonsense,” Minjoo easily returns, smiling brightly. “You’ll help me in return, before we record Suki ni Nacchaudayou, right?”

“It’s Nacchaudarou,” Hitomi automatically corrects, cheeks gathering up as she grins in relief. Minjoo likes seeing that. A grinning Hitomi shines brighter than the lamp hanging above them, giving light to the room. “And of course, I will help you.”

“Okay,” Minjoo grins back, and it’s at times like this—when she feels like she can give something in return to the group, no matter how small—that the clouds overhead clear up a tad, and breathing is a little easier.

She cherishes those moments, keeping it close to her heart.

It’s hard, but at times like this—

It’s kind of bearable.

-

“You could have asked me for help,” Chaewon slowly says to Hitomi when they regroup for lunch and stories are exchanged over meals. Hitomi just blinks at her for a moment, before an easy smile spreads across her face, followed with a fervent nod.

“Next time,” the Tochigi native says.

“Next time,” Chaewon solemnly repeats, signing the promise with a tap to the tip of the younger’s nose. Hitomi scrunches her face up in return, and Chaewon laughs.

“I want your part,” Yujin tells Minjoo after she finishes swallowing her food down. Minjoo freezes at the remark, blood running cold at the thought of her parts being taken away because Yujin will surely do better than her—

“But that’s because you make it look so impactful,” Yujin continues, yanking Minjoo’s subconscious back to Earth. Minjoo blinks, the consuming thoughts disappearing as she breathes out a confused,

“Huh?”

“You’re not aware?” Yujin asks, disbelieving. Minjoo almost feels like she’s committed a crime for shaking her head no. Yujin dramatically gasps and sets her empty plate aside, eyebrows narrowing in dismay at the undesirable response. Minjoo sits up straighter, bracing herself for the following words.

Yujin doesn’t disappoint.

“Okay, first off, Minjoo-unnie, you literally glow at your part! It goes and transitions perfectly into Yena-unnie’s following rap and I’m just so envious because oh my God—” Yujin launches into a rant, gushing earnestly over Minjoo’s center time. From Minjoo’s side, Chaewon stifles a snort, while across her Eunbi is looking on in amusement and Yena just proceeds to clasp her hands and nod sagely throughout Yujin’s speech, as though the younger girl is saying a prayer to Heavens above.

Before Minjoo knows it, her own lips have stretched into a smile. She props up an elbow and rests her chin on her palm, head tilted to look at the animated Yujin trying to re-enact Minjoo’s ‘I’ll make it red’ poses.

That’s because you make it look impactful.

The sentence is already engraved in Minjoo’s mind. Warmth flourishes inside her chest, and when Yujin reaches out to lightly poke the space between Minjoo’s eyebrows—such movements of eyebrows should be illegal because it’ll kill our fans if it’s caught on camera!—a feeling sneaks into her heart, digging its way through the soil and growing a root without her permission.

“Thank you,” Minjoo genuinely tells the younger girl after the rant is over.

Yujin huffs, rolling her eyes—but there’s a tint of red to her ears that belies her flippant-like response. “You’re thanking me because you slayed?” Yujin childishly asks, arms crossed in front of her chest.

By then, the foods are gone and the other members have started to gather the dishes, bringing them to the kitchen. No one’s attention is on them, and it should be okay, Minjoo thinks, to let honesty take the wheel for a bit.

“Not for that,” she softly says, reaching out to pinch the younger girl’s nose. She doesn’t know why the nose—perhaps Chaewon is rubbing off on her, or something.

Minjoo smiles, hand retreating back to pick up the dishes she needs to get to the kitchen.

“Not for that, but for noticing me, Yujin-ah. Thank you.”

She gets up, used plates piled on her arms. She doesn’t give herself a chance to observe Yujin’s reaction, because the seed in her heart is starting to grow into a plant and it will force her to overanalyse.

She can’t afford to overanalyse.

-

She can help Hitomi for pronunciation, but the vocal itself is another story.

She needs help.

That one word used to weigh heavily down her stomach and turn her blood into blocks of cold ice, but her members are peculiar people who literally light up at the requests for help.

It’s rather hard to flunk dance now under Chaeyeon and Eunbi’s careful guidance.

Minjoo smiles to herself, recalling the moment she said her thought out loud to Eunbi. The leader’s quick reply that they were the ones blessed to have hard-working members still gives a slight ache to her heart. An ache that is there because Minjoo wants to improve fast, if only so she could show them that their help is not for naught. The thought makes her pour herself into the practices more, perfecting the part she’s given, memorizing every step until she no longer needs to glance at Yujin or Chaeyeon to check her own position.

But vocal.

Vocal is not her forte. It’s far from being her forte. She’s no Chowon, or Miyu, or Juri, and she recoils at the thought, doubt gnawing at her again. The group can do better with someone else not Minjoo. All Minjoo can say is I’m not good enough, but I still want to try, yet at some point you’ve got to be ashamed if I’m trying is your only defense.

Minjoo is so, so exhausted.

And it’s silly, so silly, that the letters printed on the lyrics sheet are capable to suffocate her, rendering her mute and causing her voice to refuse to come out.

“Unnie,” Wonyoung says, nudging her shoulder with a nuzzle of her head.

Minjoo peels her gaze away from the sheets and starts to smile. It’s amusing how the Starship kids are puppy-like, Minjoo absently thinks, turning to face Wonyoung with a questioning arch of an eyebrow.

“Yes?”

Wonyoung beams, happy to catch her attention. The happiness on the youngest’s face is way too precious that Minjoo hopes it never dies. Wonyoung lifts a finger to point at her and exclaims, “I love your vocal colour, unnie! It’s so soothing to my ears.”

Minjoo visibly pauses, brain stopping and restarting at the comment.

“Your voice is nicer, Wonyoung-ah,” Minjoo returns, and she doesn’t need to think hard to formulate the response because it’s simply the truth.

Wonyoung wrinkles her nose, “I wasn’t seeking for a compliment!” She huffs and leans her head on Minjoo’s shoulder, humming in contentment when one of Minjoo’s hand comes up to thread through her long hair. “I just really want to let you know, unnie. Your voice is really nice, and I don’t like how your eyes dim a little every time you pick up the lyrics sheet.”

Minjoo’s hand halts its movement, but Wonyoung grasps it with her own and helps her to keep it moving through its course.

“I mean, sure, not everyone of us can be like Yuri-unnie or Eunbi-unnie or Chaewon-unnie or Nako-unnie or—you get what I meant,” Wonyoung continues, her free hand flapping in the air as an attempt to help getting her point across. “But your voice has its own charm, unnie! I believe that anyone would feel blessed to hear you singing.”

Minjoo lets out a sigh, a faint smile curving her lips.

Somehow, being an IZ*ONE member also means granting eleven people full entry into your life, to the point that they are in-tune with you enough to accurately guess the meaning behind the slight downturn of your lips or the slight dimming of your eyes.

“Thank you,” Minjoo whispers, resuming the movement of her hand even after Wonyoung stops assisting.

“Hmm-hm,” Wonyoung hums, long limbs circling around Minjoo’s waist as she snuggles close. “I believe in you, Minjoo-unnie—”

She wants to believe in the words.

“We all do!”

She really does.

Minjoo takes a deep breath, willing her voice to not crack as she replies,

“I’m working on believing in myself, I promise.”

Wonyoung nods to her shoulder, and Minjoo barely manages to not cry.

-

The room she shares with Yujin isn’t big, but it’s nice.

Minjoo used to think that it’s because she’s gotten so used to the bunking system in Produce 48 that living without a roommate would end up weirding her out, but lately she has a thought that maybe—just maybe—it’s the roommate herself that provides her a sense of comfort.

Said roommate is currently towering before Minjoo's bunk, clutching a pillow to her chest and looking kind of awake. It’s two in the morning and Minjoo can already hear Eunbi loudly listing the importance of sleep, especially for active idols like them, should Yujin appear drowsy later when the dorm is up. That can’t do. This calls for a desperate measure.

“What’s wrong, Yujin-ah?” Minjoo asks, shifting to sit. Yujin is frowning, and for a moment Minjoo thinks that the younger is about to launch an aegyo.

But Yujin merely shakes her head and says, “I can’t sleep.”

“Have you tried counting sheep?”

Yujin crinkles her nose, leaving Minjoo with an urge to reach out and smoothen the crease between her eyebrows. “I would just end up getting distracted—like, what if sheep #1 and sheep #2 collide, then they get to know each other? They would bond over their favourite patches of grass and the shape of the clouds, and then—”

“Oh my God,” Minjoo laughs, incredulous. “Okay, I got it. You and your hyperactive brain, I swear.”

Yujin blinks sleepily at her, raising a proud thumb-up. She would easily fall asleep, Minjoo thinks, judging from the barely opened eyes and the hunched shoulders as though the gravitational force is pulling her down more than usual, but Yujin says she can’t sleep so it’s only natural that Minjoo asks,

“So what do you want me to do?”

Yujin smiles, and it’s kind of ridiculous how such a simple action sends Minjoo’s heart fluttering like this.

“Cuddle?” Yujin hopefully asks. And it’s not like this will be their first time cuddling, but Minjoo has recently been aware of her growing affection towards the younger girl, leaving every brush of skin feeling like it burns, every glance lingering until their eyes meet, every word exchanged seeming more charged than it should be.

Before Minjoo can rationalise her options, her own body has reclined back down, moving around to make a room for Yujin to climb into.

“Come in, then,” she softly says, patting the empty spot. Yujin beams, and obediently climbs to settle into the vacant space, easily pressing up against Minjoo in the bunk meant for one but forced to accommodate two.

“Ah, one more,” Yujin sleepily says, curling up and nestling her head under Minjoo’s chin.

“One more?” Minjoo echoes, confused. Yujin airily laughs, sending a shiver up her spine as hot breath sweeps across her neck.

“Yes,” Yujin murmurs, looping an arm around Minjoo’s waist. “Sing me to sleep?”

Minjoo wants to tell her that they’d end up staying awake until morning comes because Minjoo is not a good singer and she’s bound to butcher any songs she sings, but—

“I want to have a sweet dream,” Yujin mumbles, and there’s no hint of teasing in her tone. “And I think, I could get that if I fall asleep to unnie singing.”

Minjoo swallows, nodding imperceptibly to the crown of Yujin’s head. “You can’t file a complaint if my voice cracks, though,” she attempts to joke.

Yujin only smiles, something Minjoo feels rather than sees, as Yujin’s head shifts and a pair of lips presses lazily against her jaw in thanks.

It throws her brain into a sudden bout of the blue screen of the death.

-

When the day breaks,
I’ll sleep by your side again
I fall asleep under the stars
and it’s like I have the whole universe

It takes Minjoo quite a while to recover, but Yujin doesn’t about it. The silence helps her to sort out her feelings enough for her brain to reboot back up, and when she begins the first notes of Bolbbalgan4’s Galaxy, Yujin sighs contentedly and snuggles deeper into her embrace.

In your arms,
the stars spill

Her hunch was right; it doesn’t take long for Yujin to begin drifting into slumber. Yet, as the younger’s breath evens out and her clear eyes close peacefully without a sign of them flickering open anytime soon, Minjoo gets a serenely calm feeling that in that moment, right there, right then, perhaps—

Perhaps her voice—and herself—is good enough.

and make the milky way
I can fly anywhere

Her nose warms up at the thought, but it doesn’t choke her like it usually would. With warmth swirling inside her chest, the first tear that finally escapes the corner of her eye feels more freeing rather than suffocating. Because her members are putting their faith in her, and they’re more than eager to walk next to her—grow with her, together, even with Minjoo’s flaws and imperfections.

Cause I’m a pilot anywhere
Cause I’m a pilot, by your side

Because Yujin’s presence in her heart is a plant that is rapidly growing, giving her the oxygen she needs to breathe, even though it scares her how the leaves and the flowers bloom faster than her chest can expand.

Lighting star, shooting star
I'll give you my Galaxy

Because Minjoo is starting to believe,

even if it takes her an odd request from her roommate at two in the morning.

Cause I’m a pilot anywhere
Cause I’m a pilot, by your side

The both of them sleep well this time, separated only by dreams.

And for now, that's enough.

...I’ll pluck those stars,
and give them to you, my Galaxy.