at the end of the dazzling us,

 curtain call,

 goodbye like the wind. 

i'm afraid i'll mess up,

 words i couldn't say come back to me.

taeyeon - curtain call

Minjeong tries to catch her breath and smiles at the camera. She dimly hears the screaming of the fans but the in-ear blocks most of the noises — she wants to hear them, but the ending shot has to be nothing short of perfect. Many people’s work comes together at this very moment. Makeup, hair, stylist — and even before these, painstaking hours of dance and singing practice, of learning how to be natural on stage, how to charm from a long distance. The camera spans closer, seconds stretch impossibly long, and Minjeong feels awfully aware of every fibre of her being. Her fake smile slips the moment the cameraman signals, and her moment is over. 

Walking away from the stage always fills her with an odd sense of detachment. One second she’s the most dazzling star of the universe, the second another takes her place. She’s herself, and she’s not — it’s starting to become hard to differentiate where Winter, the idol, starts and where Minjeong, old, boring Minjeong ends. The dress sticks to her body, sequins prickling her skin and rubbing it raw; she wishes for the comfort of her engulfing hoodie, her own scent lingering around her. 

She sees her leaning to the wall, phone pressed close to her ear by her shoulder while she’s noting something down in Minjeong’s neverending schedule. The diamond-cut of her beauty, the intimidating aura she’s oozing off that makes the staff avoid her is visible from far, the cold twist of as she rattles down details. Jimin’s dark eyes find hers, and she feels finally seen. A ghost of herself, a grey carbon copy of her idol self. When Minjeong bounces to her, despite the draining performance, Jimin’s face blooms with a smile.

“You messed up the choreo.” Jimin flicks her nose. The phone vibrates, but she shoves it into the back pocket of her jeans, focusing solely on Minjeong. “But lucky for you, the cameraman found the background more interesting than you. God, if anyone knew how to do things here, you’d be dancing forever.”

Minjeong snapped at her fingers, her teeth knocking together.

“No ‘good job’ whatsoever. You’re fired.”

“You wish, puppy.” Jimin’s voice is smug. “The only reason you stay afloat is me.” 

Minjeong snorts. Truth is, she’s right. But it’s not the way Jimin thinks — while she’s more than a capable manager, the reason why Minjeong needs her is nowhere close to the topic of her stuffed schedule. She doesn’t need to know, though.

“Get off the high horse,” Minjeong grunts. “Now, step aside. I can’t get out of this dress soon enough.”

Jimin’s eyes sweep up and down on her body, and for a moment, they linger on her bruised knees, gifts from the gruelling dance classes. She doesn’t mind them, not when she learnt to accept them as proof of her hard work and resilience. Jimin her head to the side, and she smiles wide and breathtaking. Minjeong tries to calm the fluttering feeling in her chest.

“Good job. You did well.”

>>> 

Minjeong wanted to be a singer. She wanted her voice to be heard, to give comfort to those who need it, to reach and caress concerned hearts. Instead, she’s a one-person entertainment machine, trying to grab the audience’s flickering attention. It’s a marathon — you stop for a second to breathe, you fall behind. So she forces all her attention on the goal. She sings until her voice cracks and hurts; she dances till blisters adore her feet and her knees give away from under her; she smiles when cameras are pushed in her face, and hopes it’s not shaky, not showing her exhaustion. But then, Jimin taps her shoulder, offering her any remedy that keeps her intact, keeping her from falling apart.

Sometimes she forgets that Jimin is also part of this crazy rat race. 

When she wakes up, Jimin’s already here, chugging bitter coffee down, ready to take the day. It’s another kind of focus that Minjeong is used to — while Minjeong spends every waking moment bettering herself, being the centre of her own universe, Jimin’s focus is on her. It’s easy to get used to her presence, to have someone she can fall back on. She’s always there. And Minjeong hopes she’d continue to be for a long time.

“You tend to do this a lot nowadays,” Jimin points out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. There are dark circles under them, dimming the sharpness of her eyes and Minjeong hopes they'll get a break soon.

“What?”

“You’re here, but you’re also not really… here.” She spoons an ungodly amount of sugar in her coffee. “I don’t know. Y’know you can tell me anything, right?”

Many times, she almost does. Honest confessions almost tumble out of . ‘I don’t feel like myself anymore’ and ‘I think I’m starting to fall in love with you and I don’t think I’m allowed to do so’ teether on the edge of her tongue, but she bites them down and grimaces.

“Am I not allowed to think?”

“I don’t know if you’re capable of that,” Jimin resorts, but the concern is still visible in her tender expression. “But still, if you got something in your mind, just tell me.”

But Jimin is not a friend. It’s easy to get confused, and Minjeong almost lulled herself into the comfort of the thought, the comfort of Jimin’s hand in hers. Jimin’s not a friend, she’s a manager — she was randomly assigned to her, and Minjeong lucked out on having her as a manager. It’s easy to confuse the worry in her eyes to care, rather than the concern about the company’s retaliation from the devaluation of their shiny little toy under Jimin’s micromanagement.

All the reasoning Minjeong spends so long to convince herself doesn’t stop her from developing a small flame of affection. It started small, only a fragile ember — but Minjeong grew too dependent on Jimin, and the ember grew stronger the more she wanted to stifle it. 

“Okay, I’ll be honest with you,” Minjeong taps on the table with her long nails. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but the burnt tire juice you serve in the morning doesn’t deserve the name of coffee. Also, please never again attempt to cook for me.”

“I thought you loved my cooking.”

Minjeong points at the untouched plate of burnt sunny-side-up in front of her as evidence. “As I said, I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”

Jimin stares unblinkingly at her. Minjeong is not one to back away from the challenge, and they only break eye contact when Jimin rolls her eyes. 

“You’re a little and I don’t get paid nearly enough for this.” She pulls out her phone, already typing away. “What do you want to eat, then?”

“Waffles.”

She prepares for a lecture about the everlasting diet she’s forced on — she’s starting to get used to running on empty to maintain an ideal she doesn’t even know exists. Jimin’s a good manager and an iron-fisted tyrant; words directed from the company are law. So it comes as a surprise when Jimin nods and the order is placed.

“Just don’t tell anyone.” Her voice is low, and conspiratory like every corner of their dorm would be full of cameras. 

“And you failed. Sorry to inform you but this was a test set up by SM entertainment and you failed spectacularly,” Minjeong rattles in a robotic voice. When she sees the stutter in Jimin’s expression, she quickly sends an apologetic smile. “Just joking.”

“You’re so goddamn weird sometimes.” 

“Part of my charms.” 

Jimin probs her chin with her hands and closes her eyes. She’s pretty like that in the morning — without makeup, her features are softer, rounder. Sleep still lingers on her, clings to her, unguarded. And Minjeong likes this version of her the most — the calm mornings when the rush is a few hours away; when Jimin lets herself unfurl from her constant hedgehog state. Minjeong is the only one lucky enough right now to see her in this state. When Jimin opens her eyes again, Minjeong turns her gaze away, too embarrassed to be caught staring.

“Yeah, that’s true,” she says, a small puff of laughter escaping her lips. “You are charming.”

>>> 

“Jesus. You sang this song like you’ve divorced 14 times already,” Jimin says and sips from her coffee. She doesn’t need to be here, Minjeong told her so, for her self-sentenced midnight practice. But she stays, a bully in the skin of a supporter, but a supporter nonetheless. Her presence calms her, a rock amidst the crashing waves of her life.

“There are things you don’t need to know about me.” Minjeong peeks at her from under her beanie and winks. 

“Oh, trust me. I barely know anything about you.” She lays down on the floor. “Which is a feat, considering we live together.” 

Minjeong puts down the microphone she’s holding, and sits down beside her, legs folding under her. She drops her hands on her lap before they reach out to caress Jimin’s long hair, to hold onto her.

It’s a slow process — falling in love. It creeps up on you, waits for the worst possible moment and then, the realization comes. Minjeong can feel its bittersweetness on her tongue every time she talks with Jimin. It’s just a hint first. After that comes her clammy hands itching to reach out for Jimin, her rapidly beating heart in the cage of her chest skipping when she smiles and praises Minjeong. It’s a little bud at first, small, insignificant, easy to pretend it doesn’t exist. 

“Winter?” Jimin pushes herself up on her elbows. 

“Please don’t call me that,” she says, rubbing her eyes. Exhaustion is weighing down on her fragile shoulders, heavier by each second as the sun starts to climb back on the sky. “Not you.”

“Sorry.”

The grimness of Jimin’s voice pushes her out of her head. She catches the guarded expression she made Jimin wear and immediately regrets it. 

“It’s not that—” Minjeong tries to save it, tries to put it into words that have been gnawing inside her. She cannot bear looking at Jimin, not when she feels her undivided attention. “It’s not that I’m deliberately hiding anything from you. I’m still trying to figure out everything — because I feel like me and not me at the same time.”

“What do you mean?”

Every day, Minjeong tries to fight off the feeling of being watched. It’s part of the job — the cameras, the fans, the interest. Winter is the persona she’s pulled on to save herself from the spotlight, to hide behind when things get too rough, to make people love her, an idealized version of her, far from the gritty reality. But it’s confusing, trying to separate the two as they bleed into each other and it’s a mess. Sometimes Minjeong struggles to take this mask off, having been too comfortable in being Winter.

It might be the tiredness or her sore body, but she lays down beside Jimin, eyes closed. She knows Jimin’s watching her, but she is also aware her face never tells anything. It’s a carefully crafted indifference, made perfect by daily practice. 

“I don’t know anymore what’s part of me and what’s part of the act.” She confesses what a few days ago seemed impossible to talk about. But the company is empty, and the moon outside high on the pitch-black sky is a comfort. “It’s preserving, y’know.”

Jimin hums, and Minjeong thinks she might not understand it. 

“I know your ugly laugh is not Winter,” Jimin says suddenly, sprawling beside her on the floor. Their arms touch and she’s warm, warmer than anyone’s touch has been lately. “Nor your smart mouth. Or your dry wit. I’ve been with you for what? A few months? Please don’t flatter yourself that I confuse you with your idol persona.”

When Minjeong opens her eyes, Jimin’s close. There’s a smile adorning her lips, and it’s not taunting, rather an offer for the luxury and familiarity of banter. She can do this, and pretend her longing to close the small distance is nothing. Or that her worries don't feel a tad bit lighter than before. 

“Yes? Don’t think I don’t know about your dark past—” She smirks. “Karina.”

Jimin shoots up, and Minjeong can’t help the laughter that bubbles from . The image of barely 14-years-old Yoo Jimin putting videos after videos on YouTube, hoping to be the next big YouTuber pops up in her mind — her awkward smiles and even more awkward jokes; it was a feast for Minjeong looking for dirt on her too clean manager. 

“Where did you get that?” Jimin asks, the panic barely hidden in her voice. 

Minjeong shrugs. “I have my connections.” 

It all happens in a second. Jimin pushes down on her shoulders, pinning her down, while Minjeong wrestles with the urge to laugh in her face. Jimin’s long, black hair falls around them, a curtain that hides them from the outside world — and Minjeong risks a glance at her lips, but she doesn’t linger too much.

“You will not talk about this to anyone.” Jimin’s voice is dark but Minjeong sees the mischief in her eyes. That’s the first thing she’s learnt about her — she might seem cold, but it’s just a bluff. There’s a fire in her, brilliant and dazzling, and Minjeong is afraid it’ll burn her.

Minjeong raises her eyebrows. “Or what?” 

“Don’t you think living with you offers me enough embarrassing anecdotes about you?”

“Are you trying to intimidate me?”

Minjeong thinks if she was braver, she could kiss her right now. It’s only a dull ache in her chest, the little bud of something she’s afraid to name, but it makes her stupid. But Minjeong is a coward, rightfully so, and she just enjoys the moment of closeness. 

“Why? Is it working?” Jimin asks, expression hopeful.

“No, not really.”

Jimin scrunches her nose and pinches Minjeong’s cheeks. “You know, for someone so cute, you’re too vile. A little ankle biter, you are.” 

“Thank you for the compliment.” 

Jimin lets go of her cheeks. For a moment, she just looks at Minjeong, and it’s the tender smile that makes the ache worse in Minjeong’s chest. It’s the nearness when Jimin should be a great distance away, an untouchable entity. She’s already decided when she signed her contract — career over love. Signed away with her scrawling handwriting. 

Jimin pulls back and Minjeong can finally breathe. But it feels like scratching in her lungs, a pang of pain every time she inhales. 

“Let’s go home.” She stands and offers a hand for Minjeong. 

And Minjeong accepts it, even if every touch makes her heart beat faster. Going home sounds fantastic. Maybe the luxury of a few hours of sleep will shove her back on the right track. She lets herself be tugged along, and it is only later when she realizes Jimin is still holding onto her, only letting go of her hand when she searches for her car keys. 

“Anyway, my favourite Karina video was when you tried to do your makeup.” 

“Minjeong!”

>>> 

There’s just something unnerving about standing out there and pouring your heart’s content out for the whole world to judge. And it is even more so when she’s got to finally be part of the process — when she was finally allowed to have a say in it. Being thoroughly involved in the birth of the song, from writing the lyrics to composing felt like a true turning point in her career. It’s nice to finally be seen for her potential. 

But it’s also scarier to show the world what has been her baby for months. 

“You’ll be fine.” Jimin’s good at noticing Minjeong’s nervousness, even though it’s non-existent for others. She pats her under her chin, so she doesn’t mess up her makeup. “There’s nothing you can’t do.”

“There are many things I can’t do,” Minjeong says, just to be difficult. The nervousness makes her edgy like she’s a step away from tipping over. She hears the murmurs of the fans from outside, barely keeping calm in the rush to see her. It’s easier like this — to perform something so personal as this song to a crowd that accepts and adores her. 

The dismay that sits on Jimin’s face is funny, but Minjeong is paying more attention to trying not to fall apart than to laugh. 

“Well, singing is, fortunately, one of the things you can do,” she says sharply. Someone sticks a microphone in her hands, and it’s time. “So it up, you little baby.”

“I know what you can’t do. You can’t be encouraging for .” Minjeong looks at herself in the mirror and Winter looks back at her. Pretty and professional — a lie. She feels anything but that. feels dry and itchy and it feels like there’s a boulder in the pit of her stomach, and Jimin appears again, hard eyes scanning her from head to toe. She helps fix her hair until the blonde curls sit perfectly. 

“We all have our shortcomings. But seriously,” she whispers, so others won’t hear. “The song is amazing. You’ll be amazing.”

Minjeong gulps, feeling another kind of jitters. 

“That’s better,” she grunts.

“Now, go!” Jimin pats her back. “I’ll be waiting for you here.”

It’s obvious, but it’s comforting. It’s nice to think that her own mistakes won’t matter the moment she steps back. Because Jimin banters and jabs at her whenever she can, but she’s not stingy with praises, nor with her warm, cotton-scented embraces. She’d be back here, waiting for Minjeong to come and help piece her back together.

“Duh.” 

>>> 

Minjeong remembers the first time she's ever seen Jimin. She vibrantly remembers how she wished to get out of the meeting room; to tell the people around the table assigning her to the woman who seemed so ruthless and stoic that she’d rather die. Minjeong had a fair share of terrible managers, of living together with practical strangers who pushed her around like a ragdoll — she didn’t need another one. 

“I think you’re very talented,” Jimin said. They were alone now, left on their own devices to try and get along. Not like Minjeong had any option other than nodding along.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not just saying it.” Her voice is like thunder on a calm summer night, and it made Minjeong believe she’d really meant it. “I also think you are overworked and undermanaged. At this tempo, you won’t last a year.”

Minjeong felt the exhaustion in her bones. She’s been transported to new places to be lovely at, new sceneries to steal heart at for days now — magazine shoots, music show shootings, radio guesting, practice — all the while the only sleep she could catch was during the bumpy car ride. Minjeong was tired, so she didn’t even try to keep the challenge out of her voice.

“And what would you do against that?”

There’s a schedule pushed under her nose. Minjeong knows her schedule by heart, but the red penned scribbles all over the page were unfamiliar. 

“See those little blocks?” Jimin pointed them out. Minjeong nods. “Those are unnecessary time wasted loitering around the waiting rooms. It could be reduced — it’s a matter of a few phone calls. I know it doesn’t look too much, but just imagine sleeping an hour more. Maybe two.”

“That would be heavenly.”

She flicked back her long hair, her poise regal. There was a hint of a smile on her lips and it changed her aura immediately. Minjeong wondered how scouters missed her, this breathtaking beauty — maybe in another life, they’d gruel beside each other in the practice room. 

“I want it to be your call. I don’t want to force myself on you — I’ll take the blame if you decide not to choose me.” Jimin busied herself by taking back the schedule and folding it neatly. Her eyes never rose to meet with Minjeong’s curious ones. “But I’d like it if you considered me as an option. I-I know I don’t make the best first impressions but I do know I’d do anything in my means to make your life easier.” 

“Are you this dedicated?” Minjeong joked because she didn’t know what else to do. The sincerity Jimin had expressed made her cheeks heat up — it was not every day, you met people who gave a damn. Especially when your worth came from wrangling every ounce of productivity from your body.

“I just like to do my work well. And I think you’re really talented.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s less true.”

In the end, Minjeong accepted her fate with more ease than she’d expected. 

And Yoo Jimin appeared out of the blue in her life like this: slick ponytail swinging left to right as she walked, mobile phone permanently stuck to her ears, her quick words demanding to reschedule. She never raised her voice, but you could feel the temperature drop when something didn’t go as she’d planned them to. It was a quick change — Minjeong was no longer tossed around, put on the burner to wait for bigger artists to finish, and the industry soon learnt the lesson about Jimin. 

Minjeong is a sceptic and she’s long learnt that things that are shiny and perfect-looking might not mean they are good. But Jimin’s been keeping to her promise, and the more Minjeong finds herself wrapped in her comforter on the verge of sleep, the more she thanks the stars for this. Because Jimin has slotted herself perfectly by her side, so seamlessly that now it’s hard to imagine life without her. And it scares her because there’s no guarantee how long Jimin is willing to stay. 

But it was a losing game from the point Jimin smiled brightly at her when Minjeong confirmed her new position as a manager. They shook hands and Minjeong sealed her fate. 

>>> 

“She’s scary,” Ningning says over brunch, where Jimin has decided to invite herself over. Amongst the constant ringing of the company phone, eyes twitching, Jimin has excused herself to deal with them. Minjeong catches her walking up and down the street, explaining something in great detail in a calm but chilly demeanour and she almost feels bad for the caller. Almost.

Jimin’s usually not this clingy. She lets Minjeong have her little circle and admits that spending some time apart would serve as self-preservation. But she’s been dying to get to know more about Ningning, the new shining star and good pal of Minjeong since trainee days before she left for a company with better offers. The childish glint in Jimin’s eyes is cute when she gazes at Ningning and Minjeong reminds herself to get a signed album for her.

“She’s really not. Watch this.” When she sees Jimin slaughtering back to their table, tall and intimidating, she s up a hand to stop her. “Will you be a sweetheart and fetch me some more orange juice, darling?” 

It’s a delight, seeing Jimin’s reaction to the word ‘darling’. It began as a joke after a free night spent lounging on the couch and watching romcoms. Jimin’s growing mortification and heated cheeks are fun to watch with each off-handedly passed endearment. Maybe it’s a guilty pleasure, handing out these words so freely, without being afraid of any repercussions that they might otherwise bring.  

“Of course,” Jimin mumbles under her breath and disappears. Minjeong chuckles seeing her pinking ears.

“See?” She turns back to Ningning, and her -eating grin quickly fades. She barks, “What?” 

“I— I didn’t know it was like this,” Ningning says. Her fingers nervously twirl a lock of hair and Minjeong knows this anxious tick enough. Her wide eyes bring such innocence that Minjeong thinks should’ve withered already in an industry like theirs. “That you were like this.”

“Like what?”

Minjeong busies herself with sipping from her coffee. She peers over the rim of the mug at Ningning and she already knows what’s about to come.

“Minjeong,” she sighs, aware of Minjeong’s fortified walls. She reaches over and pats her hand. Ningning is a few months younger — she has no business handling her like she’s seconds away from falling apart.

And it’s enough, a gentle touch and gentler eyes so the truth bucks out from her lips. She buries her face in her hands. “I know I’m an idiot. This should’ve never happened but I couldn’t help it. It just — happened.”

“You’re not an idiot for falling in love,” Ningning says, thumb drawing lazy circles on her cold skin. “I just wish she’d love you back.”

Ningning is so sweet with her words, laying them down each with careful hands so they don’t hurt. But Minjeong feels like she sticks into these honeyed words like a fly — too famished, too greedy for more that it heeds directly into its death trap. Ningning’s words are nothing new, she’s been aware of the one-sidedness of her crush.

Because Jimin doesn’t look at her the same way Minjeong knows she does. There might’ve been a hint of hope residing in the hollows of her chest, but Minjeong knows better than to wish on it. Still, it’s an arrow through her heart to be vindicated like this — as for Ningning also seeing the lack of tenderness in Jimin. 

Minjeong pulls away from Ningning. “Yeah, I wish that too.”

“Has it started yet?” 

Her chest has been hurting for a while now. Singing has become a chore, catching her breath during dancing has become necessary. She’s been lying about it to Jimin, telling her she’s caught the flu. Her lungs feel tight, overcrowded and she knows the promise of this. It’s starting to be hard to ignore.

“No,” she says because lying is easier. It’s easier than to tell the cutting truth, to see the hope in Ningning’s eyes wilt. 

The smile that splits her face is devastatingly relieved. “Then maybe it’s just a crush. Spend some time apart, mingle with other people. Just don’t let this take over you.”

“Okay, mom.” 

Ningning chuckles and slaps her arm lightly. 

It’s easier to say than to do. Minjeong doesn’t let these feelings spread over her, to fill her from the tip of her toes to the top of her head just so she can suffer. Love is a pretty thing, warm and fuzzy and utterly lovely if you place it into the hands of someone who loves you back — but it’s not the case, not with Jimin. 

Jimin might like her — as a friend, as a bearable colleague, as someone who is not that bad to live together with. But she doesn’t love her back, not the way Minjeong wants her to. So her cherished love, which she’s been tending to and treasuring, slips through Jimin’s fingers and shatters on the ground. And she doesn’t mind. That’s the thing — she doesn’t mind giving away her love for someone like Jimin.

“What are you guys up to?” Jimin asks and it pushes Minjeong out of her reverie. In her hand, she’s holding a tall glass of orange juice. She hands it over to Minjeong. “I’ve got a party umbrella for you.”

“How sweet.” Twirling the little umbrella in her fingers, she bats her eyelashes at Jimin. “Ningning just finished telling me how she finds you frightening.”

“Minjeong!” Ningning sputters, horrified. 

“Oh, I don't mind.” Jimin settles down between them. She gives a quick smile to Ningning but it doesn’t seem to settle her. “People do think I’m scary.”

“It’s the resting face,” Minjeong chimes in. “You could always try smiling.”

Banter — she can do that. It’s easier to fall into the role she’s set up for herself than letting others in. It’s easy, slipping into these roles while she pretends she doesn’t want Jimin. 

Jimin considers her for a moment, and Minjeong thinks she’s doomed for life. But her pursed lips curl, revealing pearly white teeth — and Minjeong has seen Jimin smiling, it’s not like she goes around with the face of utter boredom, but it still steals the breath from her lungs. She counts back from ten, and for the lack of reaction Jimin’s smile wobbles but she holds on. It’s pretty, it’s forced — it’s not the one that comes after a burst of hearty laughter, where the smile lingers and it’s a little too broad and too toothy, and then it’s perfect. 

Minjeong’s mouth twists into a thoughtful look. “Maybe rather not.”

The reaction is immediate. The smile falters then dies, it slips so quickly Minjeong can