The night is young, and so is Joy. She is still on the 10th floor, energy as high, if not higher than it was 45 minutes (the event started 20 minutes late; if Irene heard it right, the main act's vocalist got stuck in traffic or something) ago when they first stepped into the premises, screaming her heart out to one of this night's opening acts; some local band that Irene had never heard of until tonight.

 

It's November Street's third and final song when Irene decides to head upstairs. Their lyrics are a little too whiny for her liking, and with her little knowledge in music, she figures that every song so far shared the same chord progression and sentiment, and it got old too quickly. She's not gonna put herself through three more minutes of unrequited love.

 

The rooftop was part of Joy's pitch; she told Irene that the venue has easy access to fresh air and quiet in case things get too stuffy and too loud. Irene was sold, and with her as sort of a chaperone, the younger got her dad's permission.

 

The spiral staircase would have been a problem if Irene had too much to drink, but the beer in her hand-- which costs her a significant chunk of her daily budget-- is already warm, and she's only had two sips.

 

She pushes the metal door open and is welcomed by the cold wind and regret; her denim jeans and her white CK shirt prove to be a little too flimsy for the night breeze.

 

She uses her free hand to her right arm up and down for some warmth as she walks toward the concrete ledge.

 

She sets her beer bottle down and enjoys the view; society might be falling apart and everything may be pointless, but it doesn't look like so from here.

 

She wraps her arms around herself.

 

She probably wouldn't be here if she hadn't quit her job.

 

She'd take unemployment over coming up with another choreography on a Friday night.

 

Kind of.

 

Moving forward is a slippery slope.

 

She promised herself a month. And then it became two. Then three.

 

How many months does it take for a burn out to stop... well... burning?

 

She's starting to think that maybe her dad was right; that making your passion your profession isn't a smart move.

 

Too bad this bar doesn't serve creative juice.

 

Or maybe she just fears losing her worth in a world where one's value is measured by productivity, and right now, at this moment, she is not accomplishing anything. She can't even warm herself up with her tiny hands.

 

She picks up her beer bottle. Alcohol it is.

 

She downs the remaining contents, trying not to flinch at the bitterness.

 

"Easy there, lady. That's a strong one."

 

Irene almost chokes at the last drop.

 

Was she so spaced out that she didn't see she has company?

 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you," the stranger says, her voice dropping an octave.

 

Irene recognizes the girl-- from a TV show or from someone's lesbian daydream. She's not entirely sure, except that the girl doesn't look... regular, per se. 

 

"No, it's okay," Irene shakes her head. "I should be more aware of my surroundings." She bends down to set the empty bottle on the polished concrete, turning her body towards the girl as she straightens up.

 

"It's easy to get lost in your thoughts this time of the night," the girl smiles, feeling her jeans for her pack of smoke and lighter. "I hope you don't mind," she motions to the vice in her hand. "I haven't quite kicked the habit yet."

 

"Hey, no judgment, stranger," Irene shrugs. She doesn't own the space, anyway, and she's had her fair share of secondhand smoke from former co-workers who shared the same vice.

 

Said stranger chuckles, and Irene raises an eyebrow in confusion.

 

"You were judging November Street's songs so hard earlier."

 

"I..." Irene begins. It's probably her brows that gave her away. Damn things have a life of their own. "How did you know?" She asks anyway.

 

"I was looking around, and then I saw you," the girl says, lighting her first cigarette of the night. "And I was glad I wasn't the only one."

 

Irene giggles. There's no use denying. "I'm guessing someone just dragged you here, too?"

 

"Yeah," the girl nods after the first puff. "My geographically challenged best friend with inferior taste in music," she jests.

 

"It's just a matter of preference..."

 

"Yeah, but," and another puff, "it's their lyrics, you know? I get that it's 'relatable,' but don't people get tired of hearing cliches they've heard a million times before?" The girl brushes her short hair up with her free hand before taking another puff. "I know I do."

 

Irene can't exactly argue with that. Because, same. But...

 

"Well, there's only so many ways they can write pining and one-sided love."

 

The girl looks at her, scoffing then chuckling, like she said something as controversial as pineapples on pizza, putting her cigarette that isn't even halfway down out against the ledge before putting the into her jeans back pocket.

 

Guess she draws the line on waste pollution.

 

"They can always write it realistically," the girl begins, moving closer towards Irene. "People always-- ALWAYS-- love again."

 

"Sounds like you're coming from somewhere."

 

"Oh, I am," the girl admits. "I'm glad I am," she continues, smile plastered on her face as she takes off her leather jacket. "Turn around for me, please," she instructs Irene, who's only just noticed that she's still trying to warm herself up.

 

"Oh, no, I'm--"

 

The girl walks to the spot behind her before she can refuse, draping the jacket over her shoulders. "You're cold and it's either this or I wrap my arms around you," she chuckles, walking back to her previous spot, in front of Irene. "I'm Wendy, by the way, in case you wanted to know."

 

"Irene... in case you wanted to know." Irene can't help but blush a little at the gesture-- and maybe at Wendy's toned arms, revealed by her figure-hugging black shirt, but that's a topic for another day.

 

Or the next meeting.

 

Who knows?

 

The night is still young, anyway.

 

She hopes the orange-y lights by the pillars are helping to hide the pink on her cheeks.

 

She shrugs the jacket-lending off as basic human decency for now. "How about you, though?"

 

"Nah, I just wear that to look cool," the girl says. "We're gonna be here for a while and I don't want my company to catch a cold. I mean, unless you wanna put yourself through several more versions of one song?"

 

Irene just smiles because she doesn't.

 

"You know," she begins, slotting her arms into the sleeves. "As cliche as this is, no one's ever leant me a jacket before."

 

"Oh, you poor thing," Wendy jests. "Still, there's more chances you'll get offered a jacket than you not loving anyone else ever again."

 

"But you gotta stop at some point, right?"

 

"Yeah, but you don't give up on love just because someone doesn't reciprocate your feelings."

 

"Oh, you poor thing," Irene jokes back. "So... who didn't reciprocate your feelings?"

 

"This might be hard to believe because I'm hot as , but it's quite a list."

 

"It's not hard to believe."

 

"Hey!" Wendy gives Irene a light shove. Usually, she would be taken aback by a stranger being this comfortable, but instead, Irene just lets out a hearty laugh.

 

"I was kidding!"

 

"You should be. I work hard to get this body," Wendy exclaims. "Can't say the same about your face."

 

"Now, what's wrong with my face?" Irene asks, hands on either waist, feigning annoyance. 

 

"Absolutely nothing."

 

"I know."

 

"You should."

 

Irene bites her lip, keeping a certain question from escaping .

 

The night is still young, anyway.

 

"It's hard to explain, you know," Irene begins, carefully putting an end to the pregnant pause. "I think unrequited lovers, during their peak, sort of wear the fact that they're alone in it as a badge, and then shove it into people's faces, like, 'hey, look, I'm a certified lover since I keep on without getting what I give out. Ain't I the bigger person, right? You'll root for me, right?'"

 

"And November Street just write about the peak, right?" Wendy poses.

 

"It's still realistic, though. For people at that peak right now. Overdone? Yes. Unrealistic? No. A lot of people still think they deserve an award for being stupid and go on ruining their lives or being miserable just because they didn't get an 'I love you' from a certain someone."

 

"Yeah... I've been there," Wendy admits. "A pity-partying who thought the world owed her just because she's hurting... herself."

 

"Well, who hasn't?" Irene shoots the other girl a sympathetic smile. "But see? It happens. But yeah, it's tiring."

 

"It is," Wendy nodded. "It was."

 

"Well, I'm glad you're past that, stranger," Irene says, giving Wendy a light tap on the shoulder. "I know I am." A pause. "Kinda."

 

Wendy scoffs. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to believe that you chose someone and that someone had the audacity to not want you."

 

"Do not patronize me."

 

"I am not."

 

Irene smiles, and Wendy is relieved. "It's not a someone, though," Irene clarifies. "It's my previous job."

 

"Oh."

 

"Yeah. Was blinded by this passion and thought it'd be a good idea to make a living out of it, and now I'm just," Irene pauses, exhales, "I guess ing sick of it."

 

"Yeah? What were you?"

 

"A choreographer."

 

"Ooh, I didn't see that coming" Wendy mumbles, looking at the other woman from her plain CK tee to her regular wash jeans that gave away nothing.

 

"I know I don't reek creative or artistic or fun vibes, okay?" Irene huffs, rolling her eyes at Wendy. "But I am, okay? Or at least I was..."

 

"Are you sure creativity's the issue or are your joints just giving up on you?"

 

"Yah!" Irene attempts to land at least one solid slap on Wendy's left shoulder, but Wendy is swift to back away, so she ends up almost tripping on air instead.

 

Just almost because Wendy is just as swift to break her fall.

 

"Whoa! Aren't you manic-pixie-clumsy," Wendy exclaims, hands gripping Irene's shoulders.

 

​​​​​"Oh, shut up," Irene retorts, breaking free from Wendy's gentle grip, steadying herself. "I'm not your character development tool, thank you very much."

 

Wendy chuckles. Irene might be slightly uncoordinated for a dancer, but the lady sure does not miss a beat.​​​ "This might be yours, though," she counters, on a more serious note "This break, this time. You'll be surprised how much 'doing nothing' moves the plot forward."

 

The look in Wendy's eyes, though, is definitely doing something. So is the way the she runs her fingers through her short brunette hair. So is the way she her lips after every two sentences, like a ing chronic seducer.

 

But the night is young, anyway.

 

So Irene shakes her head (at least she does in her head), turns her face away from Wendy, and puts her trustee blue scrunchie to good use and ties her hair into a ponytail to prevent any hair-tucking-behind-the-ear-moment, in case it's one of the chapters in Wendy's playbook.

 

"I don't know," she sighs crossing her arms, resting them on the ledge, leaning over. "Maybe taking my dad's offer will move the plot much quicker."

 

"Maybe..." is the most appropriate response, and also because it's hard to go beyond two syllables in the face of a beautiful woman's most beautiful angle.

 

She gulps. She's managed to seem cool for a good several minutes now. She'll get through this.

 

She mimics Irene's position, leaning over the ledge, eyes looking for a building with lights brighter than the potential of whatever this is that's going on between her and a woman whose existence she didn't know until several minutes ago.

 

"What's the offer?"

 

"A posh apartment complex under my name."

 

Wendy thinks Irene's joking.

 

"What, like the Bae Area?" she scoffs.

 

"Exactly the Bae Area," Irene answers nonchalantly, eyes still focused on the cityscape.

 

This time, Wendy turns to look at Irene, eyes wide and mouth hanging open in what-the-fanfic-ery.

 

An actual ing chaebol.

 

She manages to pull herself together just in time before she starts to look like a total idiot.

 

"We... Well, in that case, my jacket's $15 per hour," she jests.

 

Irene faces Wendy once again, "Best I can do is $5," she offers. "I'm not touching my trust fund anytime soon."

 

"How about $5 and your number?"

 

The night is still young, anyway.

 

Irene keeps on telling herself.

 

"You are... something," she starts. "Do you scam people for a living?"

 

"Oh, how I wish," Wendy laughs. "But I just work with various labels and co-write songs that sell to the masses no matter how overdone they are."

 

A smirk begins to form on Wendy's face.

 

Irene's eyes are the size of a plate as she connects the dots.

 

"You're kidding..."

 

"Hearing your thoughts was refreshing. Most people just eat that up, like there's anything groundbreaking about 'if we're not together in the end, I'll restrain myself from falling in love again.'"

 

"Oh, but it sells, all right," Irene says, recalling the image of Joy from 20 minutes ago, almost bawling as the younger one sang along to the line. "Aren't you your own worst critic..."

 

"And yet, I write the same over and over," Wendy chuckles.

 

"Tell you what," Irene takes a step closer. Or a little too close. Either way, she's blissfully unaware. "I'll let you write about this."

 

"What exactly?"

 

"This,"Irene looks around."This rooftop," points at herself, "this stranger," and then back and forth at Wendy and herself, "and this conversation."

 

"What, this flop of a conversation?"

 

Wendy is just trying to get a reaction.

 

And of course, Irene is gonna give it.

 

Because, God, that beer was really strong. And Irene isn't.

 

"So flop that you had to put out your dollar a stick cigarette to keep it going?" She raises an eyebrow. "Huh?"

 

"I can always light another one," Wendy shrugs. "But you wouldn't be able to kiss me if I do that now."

 

Now, Irene would say 'what made you think that' if it wasn't for Wendy's nicotine sprinkled Tic-Tac breath hitting her right in the face. People gush about couples' height difference all the time, but the truth is having someone at eye level is where the tension is at. Irene knows she isn't drunk-- it's one freaking bottle, for chrissakes-- but maybe uninhibited and dazed enough that she walked up this close to this practical stranger without noticing.

 

"I'm not drunk."

 

"Just what?"

 

"Just been single for a while, that's all," Irene manages, eyes going from Wendy's eyes to her lips and again, before stepping back to leave a little space for the sapphic goddess of slow-burn romance. "I think we're still at that part of the story where I'd prefer to use my mouth for talking."

 

"How boring..." Wendy yawns, feigning disinterest.

 

​​"If you have nothing beyond this 'James Dean Daydream look in your eyes' thing you got going on, then yes, I guess it is."

 

"Well, at least I'm not 'Trouble.'" Wendy plays along before leaning in to whisper "I mean unless you want me to be," into Irene's ear.

 

"I... I... I probably would if you quoted anyone but Taylor Swift." Irene's resolve is crumbling, only being held together by the slight cringing.

 

"You started it."

 

"It's not my fault that you look like a Taylor Swift lyric cliche."

 

"Baby, just say yes."

 

Irene bursts out laughing.

 

"I'm a dork, okay?" Wendy backs away slightly, raising her hands, sighing in defeat. "That jacket has 75% of my cool."

 

"You are," Irene nods eventually. "Can't say I don't like it."

 

"But can you say yes?"

 

"No, at least not to trouble, but..." A pause. "You know, I thought this night was just gonna be another filler episode, but you came in here dressed like a plot twist."

 

(Taylor Swift, eat your heart out.)

 

Irene pauses again. Wendy is sporting a grin-- good or bad, Irene's not sure. She might be reading this wrong. "I mean, unless this is just a cameo. Then..."

 

"Well," Wendy begins, "we all gotta start somewhere."

 

The night is young, anyway.

 

There's a few more hours before the episode ends.

 

"Okay, Wendy."

 

"Okay, Irene."

 

They shake each other's hand, both nodding like idiots.

 

"I guess we're not kissing tonight, huh?" Wendy asks.

 

"Oh, we're kissing tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after tomorrow night. Every goddamn night."


Now, Son Seungwan, half of Korea's favorite WLW love team, is confused, because if she read the entire script right, Bae Joohyun, the other half of this love team and her real-life girlfriend, was supposed to say: "Well, giving the audience what they want isn't always--"


"Babe? That's not..." Seungwan mutters, brows furrowed.


"Yes, babe?" Joohyun responds, loud and clear, for the whole film crew to hear, with a playful smirk on her face.

 

Something is up.

 

Seungwan looks around searching for an answer, only to get shoulder shrugs from the entire studio. Seulgi, who plays her character's best friend, closes her eyes, doing a terrible job of pretending be asleep on one of the director's chairs. Sooyoung, who plays Joohyun's character's friend is talking to herself on an iPhone whose battery died right before Seungwan's eyes before the cameras started rolling.

 

"What--" Seungwan turns to the director, scratching her head, now even more lost. Someone is supposed to be yelling cut. Joohyun just went off-script and the lines stray from the plot. "Ms. Kim, that was not right, wasn't it?

 

"I don't know Seungwan," great, another shoulder shrug. "I think it's a great start to a proposal."     
 

And then Joohyun is down on one knee. With a tiny velvet box of amethyst ring in her hand.

 

"Son Seungwan," Joohyun begins. "A philosopher once said, 'If you like it, you should put a ring on it,' so…" A pause before clearing . "…would you do me the honor of not being a single lady anymore?"

 

"Beyonce references," Seungwan chuckles. "This is definitely not reel anymore…"
 

"Will you be my baby boy? My naughty girl? My surfboard?"

"Too much," Ms. Kim coughs. "Too much, Joohyun, too much."
 

"God's sake, babe, just say yes."
 

"Yes, Bae Joohyun, you have the honor of wifing me up," Seungwan nods. "Now, put that thing on me and save the kneeling for the bedroom."

 

"Yes! Yes, ma'am!"

 

"Oh, my God," the director facepalms. "I shouldn't have agreed to this."


"You literally directed their first ever scene, Ms. Kim," Sooyoung whispers.
 

"Cut!" Ms. Kim yells as she witness the two give each other a tongue bath in front of a whole crew of men and women, some looking down and giggling, and some cheering on the couple. "Save some for your wedding night, Jesus Christ!"