During my first year of high school, the other students pointed fingers at me and treated me like a criminal. The faculty pulled me into the office and interrogated me about stolen money. I was one of four people who sat near the class president, whose duties included collecting everyone's fee for the upcoming day trip. It was easy to figure out why I was ousted. I was a loner, a Japanese transfer with no friends, and a quiet girl who couldn't defend herself in fluent Korean. Those were the markers of a juvenile criminal.

The teacher had already searched my desk, so their last option was to confiscate my bag and dump my belongings. I denied my teacher their "ah ha!" moment because I was not who they judged me to be. I had no cash, drawings of my grand scheme to steal money, or written confession. And why would I? I told them a hundred times that I did nothing wrong. After they cleared me of any wrongdoing, they dismissed me.

I was livid about the accusations. On top of that, I deserved an apology. My parents taught me that people were allowed to make mistakes. We were flawed and stupid; we could be forgiven as long as we rectified our mistakes. If my accusers had apologized, I would have shown forgiveness. No one felt sorry for me, even though the only person who got hurt was me.

I was lost, like a stranger stuck in a foreign land. I was a foreigner.

As I mindlessly wandered the halls, a familiar voice said, "Hey, Sana."

I braced for another interrogation from the tall, slender girl with a dark bob and short skirt. She was my classmate, Momo. She was Japanese-born but had lived in Korea longer than I have. She was friendly and likable and didn't have beef with anyone. Most notably, she was too intimidating to have anyone accuse her of theft. Lucky her.

She smirked at me but not in an unfriendly way. Without warning, she threw a hefty envelope that I barely caught one-handed. It was one of those brown ones with a string clasp. I slowly undid the clasp and peeked inside. It was the missing cash—all 280,000 KRW of it.

An incredulous gasp escaped my mouth. I stared at Momo and was unsettled by her uncanny ability to fool everyone around her. Even I hadn't suspected Momo, a 4.0 student with many friends and— judging from her designer bag— wealthy parents. I attempted to guess her motives. She didn't need the money; as far as I was concerned, she didn't have bad blood with the class president.

Momo was still smiling, that mesmerizing, brave smile. "For your troubles," she said, then walked away.

I couldn’t believe she was leaving the evidence with me. I was at a crossroads and weighed my options. I could do the right thing by turning in the culprit. But even if I cleared my name, I would go down as a snitch. Or I could keep the money for myself. What I held in my hands was vindictive power. It felt dangerous, frightening, and electrifying all at once.

I watched Momo, curious and fearful of her sway over me.

The first time I became a criminal marked another significant moment in my life— the day I fell in love. It was the once-in-a-lifetime love where my soul recognized another soul and told me, "She's the one. She's your best friend, your sister, your soulmate. Your alibi, your partner in crime, your saving grace. Don't let her go."

The cash was untouched in the envelope, which I prompted tossed in the trash. Then, I chased after Momo. I needed to be close to her. I wanted to know everything about her. And I hoped she felt the same way about me. The rest was history.

And maybe you’ve guessed it by now, but this story doesn’t have a happy ending for either of us. After all, it’s a monster story.

At the beginning of our friendship, I was Momo's shadow. I struggled to escape my shell, but it was not for lack of trying. She often teased me for hiding behind her skirt. She tended to show affection by teasing me. I never felt malice from her. She was easily amused, and she liked to have fun. You couldn't dim her light. I worshipped her on some level.

One weekend, a classmate invited us to their birthday party. During our walk to the front door, Momo pulled me into a half-embrace and almost knocked the gifted box out of my hands. She was empty-handed.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

"Yes," I said slowly, anticipating her follow-up question.

“Then can we say this gift is from both of us?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

Half an hour into the party, a man barged into the house unannounced and fuming. He marched up to Momo and grabbed her arm. She was stoic and didn't flinch, as if she saw this coming.

“Dad, you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

“You should have thought of that before you snuck out. You’re coming home right now.”

While he was dragging her out of the house, she made eye contact with me. She smiled and rolled her eyes to make light of the situation. I followed them out to his car because I was worried he would hurt her. He shoved her headfirst into the passenger side. She rolled down the window, waved at me, and shouted cheerfully, “I’ll see you at school, bestie!”

I watched them drive off, wondering what was happening in the world. At the same time, I was elated that Momo named me her best friend— this was news to me.

The next day at school, I asked her. She spilled the relevant details: Her father hadn’t permitted her to attend the party. He tracked her through her cellular device when he discovered she was missing.

“Does he always put his hands on you like that?”

“That’s Daddy for you.”

“What about your mom? Why doesn’t she say anything?”

"The one who controls the purse strings controls her pills." Momo held out her arms and did her best zombie imitation.

I judged Momo for disrespecting her mom, but the longer I thought about it, the more I understood where she came from. Her parents couldn't care less about her. One was an who treated his daughter like property. The other was a pill-popper who forgot she had a daughter. They didn’t know how to be good parents.

I pitied Momo, but it didn't make me like her any less. I could make sense of her erratic behavior— her constant need to look perfect on the surface, but underneath, she was thieving and lying. On more than one occasion, she would lie about her plans or interests and wink at me when she thought no one was looking.

This time, we were on the rooftop, and she was playing on the ledge. I had several heart attacks trying to talk her down.

“I’m not suicidal, you dummy,” she had laughed. “I’m just having fun. It’s exhilarating. You should try it.” She turned her face towards the sky, smiling and carefree. “I wish I could fly.”

Despite having many friends, her untrusting nature made it impossible for her to get close to them. Sometimes, I felt like I was the one person who knew Momo. After four years of high school, I was confident I was the only one.

She hated nuts— almonds, peanuts, you name it. She loved cheesecake. She aspired to have a home of her own and own all kinds of birds in her future vintage greenhouse. She was a fantastic dancer but couldn't pursue it as a career.

All dancers were failures, according to her father. In his exact words, he said, "No daughter of mine is becoming a pole dancer."  Because of that, she often joked he was “father of the year.”

Momo’s strained relationship with her family continued into adulthood. Her deceased grandparents had set up a generous trust fund for her, so she used the money to move out and live independently. Since she was no longer under her father’s thumb, he refused to pay her tuition and expenses. At that point, she cut ties with her parents.

Her skewed view of marriage and family was unlike my own. My parents were decent, humble people. They were loving and supportive and had no bad words to say about anyone.

However, I was under the impression that they disapproved of Momo. It was due to the changes they saw in me after I met her. For better or worse, I was more outgoing. Rebellious, even. If I wanted to do something, I did it. I badmouthed those who slighted me and the people I cared about. I chose to be honest rather than hold my tongue or suppress my feelings. Screw being polite. I had to look out for myself.

My parents wanted what was best for me, so they hovered because they didn't trust me. I wouldn't be able to make mistakes. Didn't flaws build character? Before I knew it, weekly calls to my parents became monthly.

After moving out of the university freshman dorms, I was on my own. Momo and I celebrated when I got my first “big girl” apartment, a convenient fifteen-minute walk from campus. I juggled mandatory uni hours and a full-time job, paid rent, and stayed current on course assignments.

My primary motivation: I could sleep when I was dead. Here I was in the present day, my third year of university, sleep-deprived, raiding my fridge at 2 am, and wishing this term paper would write itself. My mind went blank, much like my term paper.

Momo insisted she was the “fun one," whereas I would grow up to become a bitter workaholic.

“You a fortune teller now?” I replied to her last text​​​​​.

She responded immediately, ​​“The truth hurts.”

The doorbell alerted me of a late-night visitor. I checked the security camera before opening the door. Momo greeted me with a red smile. Her signature Hime haircut and dark hair complemented her pale complexion. In her possession was a care package: instant ramen, instant coffee, travel-size skincare, and makeup products. They were all the essentials I needed when I was on the go. I accepted her offerings. I rarely had downtime to take care of myself, so these unannounced visits were how she checked in on my mental and physical health.

“Did you teleport here?” I held open the door so she could come in.

“I was nearby.”

“Who were you out with?”

“Some people from dance class. We went clubbing.”

“Aren’t you sick of it? You spent your day dancing. How could you go out and do it all over again?

"So? You coop yourself up at your small desk and work your off so that you can graduate college and find a job where you'll be cooped at another small desk and eventually die there.”

“Touché.”

​“Thanks.” She twirled in my tiny living room and gushed into a musical. “I like meeting strangers. I like dancing with danger. Nothing is going to last forever. So, be my partner.”

​​​​She held out her hand, fully expecting me to take it. She wasn't drunk, that was for sure. She didn’t need liquor courage to have a fun time.

"This is stupid," I protested while my hand was already in hers. Momo heaved me to my feet and twirled me, too. I snorted laughter because of how stupid we must look.

I sat down again, out of breath for those few seconds.

“Remember when we entered the duo dance competition in what, tenth grade?”

I cringed at the memory. “Our audition tape . Well, I . I was uncoordinated. If you had a different partner, you would have made it to the next round.”

“Don’t say that. I have no regrets. I needed the rejection to push myself to be better. Rejection is too common in the industry. Oh, by the way, I didn't get the part in the music video.”

This faraway look entered her eyes.

I knew Momo’s deepest fears without spoken words. She was afraid to fail and prove her daddy right.

What was I afraid of?

I was too old for monsters under my bed. I was too young to believe I would ever die young. And I worried about everything. But fear? I was unfamiliar with it. I’ve never had a parent w