You watch the ebbing river, ignoring the constant ringing from your phone.

The Jungnang river before dawn is beautiful, you suppose. Twinkling lights on the surface of the river. Pre-morning rush stillness. A pocket of tranquility in the hustle and bustle of Seoul. On another day, it would have taken your breath away, but today all it does is remind you of playing by the sea in Busan, of making wishes on firecrackers, and “I love you, Unnie”. Its beauty reminds you of missed opportunities and taking things for granted, and god, you want to scream.

Because this isn’t rejection. You know what that feels like.

Rejection was the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach when the fortieth agency rejected you. It's the disappointment when the CEO scraps a portion of choreography you suggested. It’s your parents asking what you plan to do after “all this.” (After all, “this can’t last forever, Yongsun.”) It's the voice in your head saying you're not good enough. It’s crushing pain and feeling small and you know it too well.

But this is different.

This is regret replacing the blood in your veins. This is ice filling the hollows of your heart, chilling your blood and pressing down on your lungs until you can no longer breathe. It’s I love you and if only drifting in the void of your mind, numbness settling deep in your bones as you stroll along the length the Jungnang river at half-past three in the morning. This is you knowing that you used Byul’s denial to fuel your own when you knew she was lying. When you should have known better. This is waiting for a breakdown that just won’t come.

So no, this isn’t rejection. But you wish it was.

You rub your palms together in an effort to warm yourself, cursing yourself for not having the presence of mind to grab your jacket before you left the agency. Your teeth are chattering and you can barely feel your fingers, but you know you can’t go home yet. Not while you’re numb. Not while you still haven’t cried.

You want nothing more than to collapse in your bed and cocoon yourself in your covers, but you know that if you do that before crying, you’ll never be able to muster the strength to leave your bed. With the concert less than a week away, you really can’t have that. So you wait.

When your phone rings again, you pick up. It takes two seconds of hearing Byul’s voice, frantic and deep with lack of sleep before you click “end”. Her contact photo, a picture of the two of you together, flashes on your screen right after and you turn your phone off.

You had hoped that she’d say she didn’t love you anymore. That you’d feel the aching pain that’s supposed to come with heartbreak. Hurt, because she didn’t wait for you. Angry, even. Maybe hearing her voice would have been what you needed to cry, but you guess you’re just too weak.

(A voice inside your head suggests that maybe she was always what you needed. You do your best to ignore it.)

You give up on crying once the first rays of the sun peek over the horizon. You don’t have to be at the agency until eight, but the rational part of you knows that you should go back home before that. You should take a shower and try to get some sleep, cried out or not. Your chest feels heavy, but hey, at least your eyes won’t be swollen during practice.

As you stand in the dimly lit hallway of the apartment building, the light that spills out from the gaps of the door fills you with dread. , you really can’t deal with a thief right now. You give the doorknob an experimental twist, and the door gives way easily. You push the door open little by little. Fear makes you clumsy and you almost trip over the step that elevates your living room. You stumble inside, and suddenly the thought of a break-in isn’t as unappealing.

Of course, she waited for you.

Byul is snoring softly on your couch, the bags you left at the agency cradled on her lap.

The click of the door rouses her awake. There's a moment of grogginess before she sees you and then your things are tumbling off her lap and she's right in front of you. She turns your head left and right, checking you over for injuries, bombarding you with questions: Are you okay? Why weren’t you picking up? What the hell was up with that call? Are you injured? Where did you go? I couldn’t find you anywhere. Why did you leave? Please never do that again.

As she fusses over you, you realize that in love or not, you’re never going to lose Byul. If you know her at all, and you do, you know that she won’t let this come between you. Hell, she was the one who started all of this in the first place.

She’ll always spit fire on stage while you watch in awe. She’ll always pop up at your apartment at odd times and plop down on your bed as if she owns the place. She’ll always be the one who knows when you’re not okay, the one who worries and waits for you. She'll always be sweaty and greasy and sweet, and you’ll always be her best friend.

And you’ll always be in love with her.

When Byul finishes her physical injury assessment of you, she wraps you in a bone-crushing hug. Suddenly, the hollowness in your chest gives way to pain and the tears that were reluctant to come earlier are unstoppable. She leads you to the couch, hysterical and sobbing mess that you’ve become. You get snot on her sweater, and god, this was not how you imagined today would turn out-- sobbing in your living room at dawn, being held together by the same person who broke your heart.

Byul hugs you even tighter. She nuzzles her head against the side of yours and this is enough, you think. If this is all you can have, then you’ll take it. You’ll apologize for last night and explain, because you’re so, so tired of pretending. But this is enough.

You’re sure if you think it enough times it’ll eventually come true.

When the tears stop flowing, you pull away from the embrace, your hiccups disrupting the silence in the air. Despite the sniffling, you feel uncharacteristically calm. Your voice comes out gravelly at first, and you have to clear your throat several times before you speak again.

“I’m sorry.”

Her hands reach up to wipe away the tear stains on your cheeks, uttering words of absolution before she even knows what you’re apologizing for. Her touch is tender. If you close your eyes you could pretend it was out of love. But it’s not, so you shake your head and pry her hands away gently. “No, Byul, please. I need to say this. ” She looks reluctant, but she swallows her protests with a nod. Byul lets your hands stay together.

“I’m sorry I kissed you,” hurt flashes on her face and she flinches back, but you hold on to her, rushing to clarify your intent, “Not because I didn’t want to kiss you, god, no. That was, like, the best thing that has ever happened to me, so no, I’m not sorry for that.” She’s blushing and judging by the warmth in your face, so are you. The urge to look anywhere but at her is strong, but you’re nothing if not determined.

“I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable. And for running away.” You tell her where you were and you apologize for making her worry. You thank her for worrying despite what you did. Your hands are clammy in hers, but Byul squeezes your hands and gives a small smile, and already it feels like forgiveness. It makes saying the next words less difficult.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t realize sooner,” Your heart thuds uncontrollably against your ribs. Byul looks at you with confusion and you force out the words that started it all.

“Byul, I love you.”

It hurts, but finally, finally, you’re being honest with yourself.

“Ever since we were trainees, I’ve been in love with you. And if I had realized sooner,” your throat closes in on itself and cuts you off. You have to take a deep breath before you can continue. “If I had realized sooner, we would have been in love with each other.”

Byul’s eyes are wide and glassy. She doesn’t make any attempt to deny that she was in love with you, and if this entire thing didn’t hurt so much you would have been relieved.

“I know you said you didn’t mean it, but I know you, Byul. But I used that, I kept denying, and denying and finding excuses, when all this time I should have realized that I could deny my own name but I could never deny you.”

Your gaze fall to your intertwined hands. “And now it’s too late. ” Your grip on her hand tightens, some final desperate plea that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong.

You wait for Byul to do something. Say she need some time, or deny it all, or just up and leave. Instead she breathes a deep sigh and runs her hands through her hair.

Your mind goes into overdrive the moment she lets go of your hands. . . You ed up too badly she wouldn’t understand after all you’re going to lose her

Byul leans back on the couch and looks up at the ceiling.“I’m sorry, too. For lying. You knew, anyway.”

Confusion replaces your panic. Wait, so she never loved you?

Byul turns to you and reaches to tuck your bangs behind your left ear. You cherish the fact that she’s still here, your eyes fluttering shut at the contact. The heavy silence is broken by her low voice. “I was drunk that night, but I meant what I said.” She the side of your face, gently coaxing you to open your eyes. When you do, Byul is sitting much closer. There are tears rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes are sparkling and she is smiling.

”I still mean it.”

(Later that morning, before you head to the company together, after she kisses you long and slow, she gives you a peck and a cheeky grin.

“So kissing me was the best thing that has ever happened to you, huh?”

You swat at her and push her off your bed. She lands on her , one foot in the air and the other tangled in your sheets. A moment passes and then the both of you are laughing uncontrollably. As you watch her giggling on your bedroom floor, you realize that you didn’t really get it right earlier – kissing Byul is not the best thing that has ever happened to you.

Byul is.)