Mina has inferiority complex.

She hides it in the way she manages a rehearsed smile at the end of every tip-toed performance, only to be scolded the moment she drags her tiny-limbed self off stage— she had her eyes closed more that ninety percent of the show, her teacher points out, and from then on the venomous tone at which she spews those words serve as the background music of Mina’s whole day.

Her family holds a feast in celebration of a successful recital, but Mina can't see the celebration in anything— her father is far too busy with his phone pressed to his cheek, her mother is merely watching as the thousand dollar steak sitting on her plate cools (looking more worried than anything else), and Mina herself felt like a mere backdrop on this day when she should’ve been looked at as if she were a top star. She would’ve whined about it, but she didn't want to sleep with her hand cradling her cheek. Never again. She doesn't dare look at her father.

She is fourteen years old, but she doesn't seem to know that this wasn't how normal fourteen year olds should be feeling.

Miles and miles of ocean and land away, there's Momo smiling widely.

She’s hunched over a sink, watching the rainbow-colored bubbles slowly disappear down the drain. Her hands are stained with paint that was never meant to make contact with skin, but her mother laughs in the background as she marvels on the self-proclaimed Picasso piece that her daughter had just smeared all over her bedroom’s walls. It's fine, she thinks. It's just paint.

Her father comes home to Momo smiling at him— half apologetically, though already half knowledgeable that what she had just committed wasn’t so much a sin in the old man’s eyes— after a long day of work at the factory, but laughs it off; it's just paint. They have a feast of McDonald’s for dinner, extra large fries just for Momo. Her father apologizes and promises big things in store for their family, big things Momo is so sure she's heard of before, like a broken record. On repeat, he goes. Momo’s mother smiles bitterly, quietly feasting on her meal. Momo listens to her father with wide eyes and while on the edge of her seat, as if this broken record that had been on repeat was somehow still her favorite song.

When they first almost meet, they're both eighteen years old.

Mina is standing resolute next to her father, about to be sent off to college— though it didn't really feel like that, considering how he was on the phone as usual, the sound of his voice slowly turning into static in her head; she didn’t even bother making sense of the big words she never bothered to ask about. To her left was her mother, knuckles white from having gripped a little bit too tightly on the handle of Mina’s luggage. She wasn't ready to let her little girl go. She looks at Mina, teary-eyed, not remembering when she'd gotten her the blouse she was wearing, nor the black pants that fell short right above her knees. She doesn't remember much of being a mother to Mina.

Mina kisses her mother goodbye, and doesn't bother with her father. He's yapping on about catching a flight back to Japan. Slowly, she pulls her luggage along, eyes downcast onto the path she walked on, hoping she wouldn't stumble into anybody.

Momo is about twenty-three steps away, mounting off of her father’s motorcycle. For luggage, she only has the straps of her backpack around her shoulders. Her father reiterates how proud her mother would’ve been, kissed her cheek, and bid his goodbye. She's in a sweater a size too big for her and rubber shoes that were close to being completely worn out. With her shoulders slump, she walks along.

The moment Mina first laid eyes on Momo, as she was dragging her luggage up a short flight of stairs, the only thing she could notice was her poor posture— not her eye-catchingly blonde hair (which was obviously unnatural) nor her ethereal Japanese beauty. This was because her eyes were trained to point out flaws like such. She shrugs the thought off as much as she can, and continued dragging her heavy luggage along. Four, she counts how many gentlemen offered to help her carry her bag, only to be refused.

Mina takes the elevator the same time as Momo does, and they both get off at the sixth floor. The entire time, their eyes don't meet at all.

Momo feels a hand on her shoulder, and she turns her head to see that the hand belonged to a congenial-looking stranger, with a mismatched smile embedded on her light red-smeared lips. “Hey, can I help you?” Momo notes at the way the stranger’s bunny-like front teeth peeks out whenever she speaks. “You're a freshman, right? I’m Lim Nayeon, just call me Nayeon.”

“Yes,” Momo replied, conscious about her shaky Korean, “I’m in room 630. I’m Hirai Momo.”

Nayeon pauses, digesting the fact that Momo was foreign, before again putting on her barbie girl smile. “Welcome to Kyungdo, then, Momo! Let me lead you to your room.”

There are girls with huge cameras slung across their necks, and Mina doesn't like it one bit. She keeps her head lowered and her teeth grit, blinking w