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Yoonchae had been feeling like shit for two weeks now.
At the end of the first week of college, she had briefly thought about dropping this Aztec art class; she had seriously considered changing classes altogether, mostly because she kept coughing during lecture, and the lecture was a hundred-person class in which, seemingly, she was the only person who was sick and coughing her lungs out. She had also briefly considered changing seats, but people had just begun sitting in the same locations, and it didn’t feel right to take someone else’s seat at this point.
Yoonchae decided it was better to stay where she was.
She continued coughing.
On the Monday afternoon during the second week, she wanted to apologize to the light-skinned girl in braids sitting about ten feet away, who kept giving her looks every time she coughed. Yoonchae thought about glaring back, but couldn’t summon the strength to do that, and also, the girl was kind of intimidatingly beautiful. Yoonchae would have sworn she had only ever seen braids like that in magazines. Like, truly, the girl was stunningly beautiful, even as she kept giving Yoonchae looks that hovered between annoyed and concerned, like she could not decide which emotion to settle into.
It wasn’t that Yoonchae had not taken medicine. She had! In fact, she had taken cough drops too, one after another, until the taste had gone bitter on her tongue. At this point, she couldn’t even not take cough drops, because the moment one wore off, it gave her immune system the signal to continue hacking her lungs out. None of it worked. There was an itch deep in her throat that refused to go away, no matter how much she swallowed or cleared her voice.
By the end of the second week, at the start of Friday’s lecture, things felt worse. The class met late in the afternoon, and Yoonchae was completely out of water. She had not had a chance to get tea or anything warm to help her dry throat, because, of course, she had screwed herself over by signing up for a three-hour painting studio that ended right before this class, running from noon until 2:45 PM. She slipped into her seat already exhausted, already bracing herself.
Just as Yoonchae was getting ready to fight for her life through another round of coughing, the light-skinned girl, who sat halfway down this row, scooted a few seats closer. It wasn’t too close, and the distance still felt rather careful. It was perhaps just closer to four seats away now, instead of the ten that they’d started with.
The girl offered her a cup.
Yoonchae eyed it suspiciously. Every warning she had ever learned flared in her mind at once. What was that English phrase she’d learned about back in her ESL class? Ah, yes, stranger danger. It was probably not a good idea to accept drinks from strangers. Even if it was a gorgeous classmate who kept making faces at her when she wasn’t looking.
But the girl seemed genuinely nice about it. Her posture just looked a bit stiff, as if she had a mild fear of catching whatever Yoonchae had.
“Thyme,” the girl said. “Ginger, licorice root, honey, and lemon. It should help.”
Yoonchae had taken the paper cup into her hand and hadn’t even gotten to say a thank you before the lecture started. She brought the cup closer anyway, letting the warmth seep into her palms, and sipped as carefully as she could. It was a bit strong, but it did taste good.
After the lecture ended, Yoonchae had sat there, her brain still feeling like it was lagging, struggling with her backpack zipper, which had gotten stuck at the worst possible moment. By the time she finally loosened it and looked up, looking to say thank you to the girl who’d offered her tea, the girl was already gone.
But it happened again on the Monday lecture of the next week.
And then again, on the Wednesday lecture as well.
And then Friday as well.
For every lecture during the next week, the girl appeared with a different cup each time, never lingering long enough for conversation, always just dropping off the cup as Yoonchae managed a thank you and then returning to a polite distance. Then, like a miracle, on the last Monday of September, Yoonchae walked into the lecture feeling almost normal.
The girl was already there, already holding out another cup.
“Peppermint,” she said this time.
This time, Yoonchae took the cup, but she was determined to say more.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I’m back to normal now.” She paused, then added, “I’m Yoonchae, by the way. What’s your name?”
The girl blinked at her, clearly surprised. For a moment, Yoonchae wondered if she was surprised that Yoonchae spoke English. Yoonchae would have sworn she was dressed as American as possible. Grey hoodie, tank top, baggy jeans — had it not been good enough? She could not imagine how the girl might have known she was international.
“Yoonchae,” the girl said, her concern fading as her lips curled into a small smile. “I’m Manon. I’m a sophomore.” She tilted her head slightly, amused. “Freshman flu really got you, didn’t it?”
Later, Yoonchae would think of that afternoon as the quiet beginning of a camaraderie that she’d never expected. Manon never made a show of taking her under her wing, but somehow she did anyway, gently and without asking permission. They began talking before and after the lecture, when Yoonchae wasn’t late from her painting class or when Manon wasn’t rushing to a club meeting afterward. And Manon explained things Yoonchae hadn’t even thought to ask about, like how discussion sections actually mattered more than lectures sometimes, or which dining halls were secretly terrible after seven in the evening.
On that same front, Manon was from Switzerland and also talked about being international with an ease that surprised Yoonchae, mentioning homesickness as if it were weather, like it was something that passed through regularly but did not define the climate of her life.
Manon’s presence and their friendship, safe to say, became quite a source of reassurance.
“You don’t have to know what you’re doing yet,” Manon had said once, when Yoonchae was lamenting about the practicality of taking an art class when all of her roommates were enrolled in upper-level biology courses already or thinking about finance internships. “I honestly think no one actually does, really. Some people are just better at pretending like they’ve got it all figured out.”
In a way, Manon always sounded like someone who had survived things and come out curious instead of hardened, and Yoonchae really appreciated that.
The one thing Yoonchae wished was different, though, was the fact that she rarely saw Manon outside that GenEd class, because Manon was a sophomore, and they had different friend groups. Manon just had so much to do, with clubs, with classes, and with her robust social life. Yoonchae hadn’t expected it, but Manon was that person who had friends waving to her from across the quad, with her Google Calendar stacked with plans and a life that moved at a different tempo than Yoonchae’s own confusing freshman schedule. Yoonchae watched her sometimes, with something like awe, wondering how someone — still, also just an undergrad student — could seem so composed while belonging to so many places at once.
At the end of the semester, after the final GenEd exam that neither of them felt entirely confident about but also did not think they had failed, Manon texted her, “Ice cream? I know you don’t have anything else today. (My treat!)”
They had walked to a small place off campus, breath fogging in the early winter air, and Manon had ordered decisively, while Yoonchae took too long and laughed at herself for it. After, they sat on the cold bench outside anyway because it felt wrong to stand and eat in the crowded ice cream store space.
“You did well this semester,” Manon said thoughtfully. “Like, adjusting to college and all that. I can tell.”
“Really?” Yoonchae didn’t mean to sound so surprised. She swallowed past a sudden tightness in her throat, nodding because she trusted that Manon meant it. “That’s… actually good to hear. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing still.”
“Yeah, really,” Manon had said, nodding this time. “Like, even if you don’t know what you’re doing, I think you’ve at least you’ve gotten in the flow of things now. Would it be weird for me to say that I kind of feel proud of you, you know?”
It had been cold outside, December already, but those words warmed Yoonchae more than she expected.
On the walk back, Yoonchae thought about her older sister in Korea, whom she would not be seeing until the end of the month, when holiday break came. She still missed her sister deeply, but the ache felt less sharp.
Maybe she was getting more adjusted. Maybe she’d actually fallen into the flow of things.
Yoonchae had a feeling it could’ve also been that maybe, just maybe, she’d found another older sister at college, too.
September of freshman year had been stressful on all sorts of fronts. Getting on clubs’ email lists had already been a ridiculously complicated process, and for Yoonchae specifically, even getting into the Pleiades info session was already more stressful than any club interview could’ve been.
Yoonchae had expected a sign-in sheet, maybe a folding table in a classroom, maybe someone cheerfully handing out flyers with too much enthusiasm. Instead, she had been standing behind a small, white building — which looked like it had been built in another era, perhaps at least a hundred years ago — for ten full minutes while two people physically blocked the door, like bouncers at a nightclub that absolutely did not need bouncers.
What was more unnerving, however, was the fact that these “bouncers” were her age, or close enough that it also felt a little insulting, and they were pointing at people with startling confidence, interrogating them with questions like “Where are you from?” and “Who’s your favorite poet?”
“What’s your talent?” the girl at the door had asked someone to Yoonchae’s left, her voice calm in a way that suggested she enjoyed this. The poor victim, probably a freshman like Yoonchae herself, had frozen, and then sang “Happy Birthday” in what sounded like Spanish, or Italian, or some other language of that sort, shaky but committed, and she was waved through the door like she had passed a sacred trial.
A guy in sunglasses was at the opposite end of this semicircle surrounding the door, and the other person at the door asked him, “The current state of our world in three words?” The victim had said something vague and smooth that Yoonchae could not hear over her own pulse, and then he and the door guy dapped each other up, as if they’d known each other for years before he disappeared inside, sunglasses still on.
Yoonchae’s palms were damp.
She had joined this line because Manon had suggested it to her, after catching her sketching portraits during one of their GenEd lectures, and she herself had been riding a fragile wave of confidence that was now rapidly evaporating. In fact, Yoonchae was seriously considering pretending she had ended up at the wrong building — which would’ve been a terrible excuse, as the Pleiades house’s unique architecture was most definitely not mistakable for another building — or that she needed the bathroom urgently, or that she did not exist at all.
Too late. The girl at the door pointed at her.
“What about you?” she asked.
Yoonchae’s brain emptied. Every possible answer fled. She didn’t even recall what the question before had been. She felt overly conscious about her attire and how pink her shirt was. She was dimly aware that running away at this moment would be socially unacceptable, but the impulse was strong and immediate. Before she could humiliate herself properly, however, someone burst through the crowd behind her.
“Sorry, Lexie-babes, I’m late,” a voice said brightly. “Forgot to bring a wire.”
The girl who had just arrived was carrying a massive DJ board, wires dangling, a pair of headphones looped around her wrist. She was wearing the most basic outfit imaginable, but her shirt was a bright shade of yellow, and her pants were camo green. She was also wearing enough jewelry to make it feel intentional, and she moved like the hallway belonged to her.
“Lara, again? You’re interrupting,” the girl at the door — Lexie — sighed. “I was asking a question.”
“Oops,” Lara said cheerfully. “Don’t mind me, just continue. Pretend I’m not here.”
Lexie turned back to Yoonchae, unimpressed, but then Lara was also looking at her now, head tilted slightly, eyes bright and curious. Something about the way they both watched her made Yoonchae want to fold in on herself.
“I’m Yoonchae,” she blurted. “I’m from Korea.”
There was a beat of silence.
Lexie looked like she was going to say something, but then Lara laughed, and then Yoonchae wanted to pitch herself off the side of a mountain.
Maybe she could fly back to Korea and just jump off the Gongnyong Ridge.
“I like this one,” Lara said, turning to the girl at the door. “Can you let her in so she can help me carry my stuff?”
Before Yoonchae could process what had just happened, the DJ board was in her arms. It was heavier than it looked. Lara took the lighter pieces and started up the stairs in silence, while Yoonchae followed, huffing slightly and arms straining, heart still hammering, wondering if she had just accidentally passed a test she did not understand.
Inside was worse.
The room was dark, and everyone was sitting in neat rows of chairs, completely silent, facing a long table where a line of people sat watching them with unnerving intensity. Yoonchae assumed they were editors, or board members, or judges of some kind, which did not help her nerves at all. She found herself still standing by the table, still helping Lara plug things in, acutely aware that she was not sitting like everyone else.
She felt like she was glowing with wrongness, but then Lara turned on the music, and that also felt extremely wrong, because why the fuck was the info session having techno music in the background? Yoonchae had expected… Well, she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting anymore. Maybe elevator music?
Yoonchae almost laughed from the shock of it.
“Thank you,” Lara said to her moments later, genuinely, and gestured to a seat. “You can probably sit there if you want.”
It was the last seat in the front row, closest to the DJ setup. Yoonchae sat down, heart still racing, while people slowly filtered in behind her. She noticed that almost nobody had actually been turned away. The door thing, she realized belatedly, had probably just been an intimidation tactic. The introductions began soon after; editors spoke, board directors spoke, people listed titles Yoonchae did not yet understand. They went down the line of the table, and all of a sudden, it was Lara’s turn.
“Oh,” Lara said casually, after a moment of silence, as if she had not been expecting to be asked to speak. “I’m not in the Pleiades, but my sister is.” She shrugged. “I’m just the DJ.”
Yoonchae did not miss the way the two girls next to her immediately turned their attention to the woman sitting at the center of the table, lounging comfortably in an oversized chair like it had been built for her. Rhea, she recalled from the earlier introductions.
Oh, Yoonchae thought faintly. That made sense.
After the moment of collective intimidation passed, the room softened almost immediately. The editors even seemed to relax, as people shifted in their chairs, and the long table stopped feeling like a tribunal and started feeling like a group of tired students who had absolutely committed to a bit. Sheets of paper were passed down the rows, rustling softly, each one neatly labeled with different boards people could apply to join.
Poetry. Arts. Business. Fiction. Design.
Yoonchae scanned the descriptions slowly, rereading them twice. Poetry and arts, she realized, were largely discussion boards, focused on reading submissions and deciding what made it into upcoming issues. Business was exactly what it sounded like: logistics and budgeting and outreach, which made her stomach sink just a little. Fiction caught her eye instinctively, but she hesitated. It made sense that it would be primarily English pieces, and while her English was good, it was not effortless in the way fiction probably demanded. The words that the description of the design board held, however, felt steadier. Design meant layouts, covers, flyers, and visual identity. Design meant she could make things without needing to explain herself perfectly in another language. Design meant the possibility for her to continue creating.
She drifted around the room afterward, speaking to a few of the younger-looking board members, testing the waters. Everyone was friendly enough, smiling, but also undeniably cool in a way that felt sharp-edged and practiced. They spoke quickly, referenced things she did not always catch, and Yoonchae wondered quietly if her presence would feel off, like a wrong-colored thread woven into the fabric of the room.
That was when she noticed Lara again. Lara, content in her corner, half turned away from the rest of the room, DJ board glowing softly under her hands. Lara, as if sensing that someone was looking at her, caught her gaze and lifted her chin, gesturing her over without hesitation.
Yoonchae went. Curiosity nudged her forward just as much as gratitude did. She had seen DJs before, had snuck into Hongdae and Itaewon clubs after the summer of her senior year of high school, and had learned what good music felt like in her body, but still, this felt different, actually being so close to the soundboard.
“Cool, right?” Lara asked, glancing at her with a grin, as if noticing Yoonchae’s awe. “You want me to show you how to do it?”
Yoonchae blinked. Then she nodded.
Lara shifted easily, making space, explaining without condescension. She asked Yoonchae if she had any song recommendations, and Yoonchae felt a small thrill of relief when she did. Yoonchae pulled out her phone, searched for a track she loved, and hesitated only a second before showing Lara. Lara nodded in approval immediately and queued it up.
“Come closer,” Lara said, waving her around to her side of the table.
The board was overwhelming up close, all buttons and lights and sliders, but Lara talked her through it patiently.
Drag this here to line up the beat. Wait, don’t press that yet, listen through the headphones first. Yeah, you hear that? Okay, sync the bass. You can filter in or out. Oh, yep, or that. Sure, cut it out, or crossfade. That’s good, that’s good. Push this up a little more. Okay. Now switch.
The transition was smooth. The sound shifted cleanly. Lara slapped a high five into her palm.
“Not too shabby,” Lara said, clearly pleased. “We might just make a DJ out of you.” If Lara noticed that Yoonchae was shy, or that her hands were shaking just a little, she did not mention it. Instead, she tilted her head, thoughtful. “What’s your name again, by the way?”
“Yoonchae,” she said. “I’m a freshman.”
“Oh, cool, cool,” Lara replied easily. “I’m a sophomore. Welcome to Geffen. You’re gonna love it here.” She smiled, bright and certain. “Wanna stick around and DJ with me? You seem like you have good music taste.”
So Yoonchae stayed. She stayed until the hour ended, helped unplug wires, carefully coiled cords, and somehow found herself being introduced to the president of the current Pleiades board one-on-one. Lara, unprompted, said, “Yoonchae was completely new at this, but her music taste is good. I feel like she’s cool.”
Yoonchae braced herself instinctively, ready for questions, for evaluation. Instead, Rhea studied her with quiet interest, something sharp and amused glinting behind her eyes.
“Hm,” Rhea said. “That’s good to know.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Yoonchae managed, “This building is very cool.”
Later, weeks later, she would submit her final piece for the design board application. The theme was fear. She poured more of herself into it than she meant to, sketching out in pen what she could remember from the night of the info session — a green door behind an antique building; messy, Basquiat faces surrounding a door; an oil pastel figure with a yellow in the middle, taking a step into the half-open door; a pink figure following behind, with a DJ board in hand.
Threshold of Fear, she titled the piece.
When the email came, titled Welcome to Pleiades, she read it three times just to be sure. The weeks-long, competitive process was finally over. She had been invited to the welcome dinner, Saturday at seven.
Almost immediately after, her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
congrats on design board! u shld bring some song recs to sat dinner/afterparty, might be easier if you have a flash drive but if not nw
On Saturday, Yoonchae arrived with her usual purse, filled with lip gloss, perfume, gum, and now, tucked carefully inside, an extra USB-C flash drive she’d borrowed from one of her roommates, loaded with a number of songs she’d heard growing up in Seoul. Lara was already at the DJ booth, grinning the moment she spotted her, one headphone around her neck and another held out in her hand.
“Yoonchae!” Lara called enthusiastically. “I forgot to tell you to bring a pair of headphones!”
Yoonchae laughed, the sound surprising her as it came out lighter than she expected. She lifted her purse slightly, as if to prove she was at least partially prepared.
“It’s okay,” she said, stepping closer. “I have...”
She unzipped her bag and held up the flash drive, suddenly shy again, as though the small piece of plastic carried far more of her than it should have. Lara’s grin widened immediately.
“See?” Lara said triumphantly, as Yoonchae made her way up the steps toward the booth and took the extra headphones. “I knew you’d get it.” Lara took the flash drive from her and plugged it into her laptop. Yoonchae watched as the MP4 files loaded.
“It’s okay, right?” Yoonchae asked nervously, seeing that Lara was still scrolling through the files.
“Oh, yeah, girl. Don’t even worry,” Lara said lightly. “Looks like we’re gonna party like we’re in Hongdae tonight.”
With that, Yoonchae watched in fascination as Lara clicked, dragged, and dropped a file into her mixing software, and —
Act like an angel and dress like crazy.
Oh yeah. It was going to be a fun night.
Yoonchae recalled the exact moment in which she stopped calling Dani “Daniela” and started calling her “Dani” instead. She had known Dani’s name before she even saw the girl's face, and she’d learned of Dani’s nickname over text.
Lara had reached out first, near the end of Yoonchae’s freshman fall semester, at a point when campus was starting to feel less like a maze and more like a map she was slowly learning how to read.
Hi pooks remember the girl i was talking about the other day? daniela? she’s looking for a dj for her consulting org final dinner afterparty. i gave her your number, hope you don’t mind! (also they will pay you a lot for the gig 🤭)
Minutes later, she got a message from the aforementioned girl. The message was polite, straightforward, and surprisingly detailed.
Hi, this is Dani. I’m part of the Geffen Undergrad Consulting Group, and Lara said you were a DJ who might be interested in helping us out. We have our final dinner + afterparty for the fall semester on Saturday, Dec. 9th, and we’re looking for a DJ to cover 4 hours of good music (9 PM -1 AM). You get to attend our super fancy final dinner (and also bring a +1) from 6-8 PM at The State Room, and we’ll also pay $500 for setup time + 4 full hours of music. We also rented out a local bar, so you’ll only need a sound board — there are speakers there we can use. Let me know if you’re interested.
Yoonchae agreed almost immediately. 500 USD in a night? Sure, her family was wealthy and could afford sending her to school overseas, but Yoonchae didn’t want to have to keep having to ask her parents for more money, and this was a great alternative to make a bit of her own cash.
They texted for several days after that. Logistics, timing, expectations, room size, and the general vibe Dani was hoping for. Dani asked thoughtful questions and answered them just as carefully, sent over a playlist of songs that people had liked at their last semester’s party, which made Yoonchae feel less like a replacement option and more like a deliberate choice. Still, Yoonchae did not actually meet Dani until the day of the event itself.
Dani was immediately warm in person, the kind of warmth that did not overwhelm. She made eye contact when Yoonchae spoke, nodded along, waited patiently when Yoonchae was trying to find the right English words for what she wanted to say, and repeated things back to make sure she had understood. It was a little disarming how attentive Dani was. And during the four-hour afterparty, Dani checked in every half hour or so without hovering, asking if Yoonchae needed water, food, a break, or anything else at all. The care felt intentional, as if Dani understood how easily a night like this could tip from exciting into exhausting.
“No, I’m okay,” Yoonchae had said each time. “But thank you for checking in.”
After the event, Dani sent Yoonchae a Google Calendar invite for coffee to talk payment logistics, explicitly noting in the description that the coffee would be paid for by the consulting group. The specificity made Yoonchae smile. Over coffee, Dani told her how much she loved Yoonchae’s mixes and how sharp her musical instincts were — apparently, Lara had told her after that she’d only started mixing this semester.
It was a little strange, but endearing. Dani spoke like someone used to giving feedback professionally, but she softened it with genuine enthusiasm that felt earned rather than strategic.
The coffee chat should’ve only been 20 minutes long, just enough to discuss any paperwork Yoonchae should expect and if she preferred a check, electronic payment, or cash, but somehow, they were there for nearly an hour. Yoonchae learned that Dani, like Lara, was also a sophomore, but unlike Lara, who was deeply invested in music and everything related to the production of sound, Dani was at the other end of the spectrum. Dani was focused on strategy consulting as a career, and dance as a hobby, which she took seriously enough to rehearse late but lightly enough to love without turning it into pressure.
At some point, Dani began offering advice without being asked — but not that Yoonchae minded. Yoonchae had been talking about her experience with the cultural difference in college in Korea versus America, and Dani talked about balancing ambition with rest, about choosing people who chose you back. None of it came with pressure. None of it felt like a lecture.
Yoonchae listened carefully. She absorbed everything.
Her own sister was nearly a decade older and had always been far away, offering love but rarely this kind of granular guidance. Yoonchae had never really had anyone tell her these things out loud, never had someone frame the world as navigable rather than overwhelming. Even when Dani’s advice felt unsolicited, Yoonchae recognized the genuineness behind it. It felt like being at a new job and being handed a cheat sheet of rules that no one else had thought to explain.
Somewhere in the middle of that hour, Yoonchae realized she had stopped feeling like she was in a meeting about payments and logistics. The conversation had loosened, unspooled into something that felt mutual. Dani laughed easily, listened closely, and asked questions that were not designed to lead anywhere in particular. When they finally stood to leave, Yoonchae felt the faint, unexpected sense of having gained a new friend — albeit one that was still older than her and running in a different circle.
It was near the end, as they were gathering their things, that Yoonchae mentioned — in response to Dani asking if she’d been to the music scene around Boston yet — how badly she wanted to see a particular artist in concert. She said it quickly, like a confession she did not want to linger on, explaining that resale tickets were ridiculous, and that as an international student already spending so much money on tuition and housing, she could not justify it.
Dani paused. She gave Yoonchae a look that was thoughtful rather than sympathetic.
“Keep an eye on your phone,” Dani had said. “Just in case.”
Yoonchae did not think much of it at the time. Then, on a Monday evening a few weeks later, right before dinner, her phone buzzed.
Hey, if you’re free tonight, I have an extra ticket for Fisher. Let me know asap — we’re leaving at 6:40!
Yoonchae stared at the screen for a full ten seconds before responding. There was, truly, no universe in which she would say no. She went. Of course, she went.
The night was loud and bright and dizzy in the best way. She met Dani’s boyfriend, Jonah, who was easygoing and humorously sarcastic, along with two other guys from the consulting group who treated her like she had always been part of the plan. By the end of the night, her phone’s camera roll was full, and her hands were clutching a shirt from the merch stand that she absolutely did not need but loved anyway.
It was in the Uber ride back that Dani invited Yoonchae to the college dance troupe’s annual charity show. She also mentioned, casually but more than once, that if Yoonchae ever wanted to help with mixing music, the troupe was always looking for people. The offer sat between them like an open door that did not demand to be walked through immediately.
“Think about it,” she’d said, and sent Yoonchae a link to get the free tickets for the first night of performances. “The show itself is in mid-February, so you still have plenty of time if you want to plan around the date and come watch.”
Yoonchae did think about it.
She got tickets for the show later that night, and she sent a screenshot of her reservation to Dani, who texted back mere seconds later.
Woohoo! get ready to see some crazy stuff soon, youve been missing out freshie 😋
Still a freshman, she sighed to herself.
January couldn’t come soon enough.
Yoonchae met Sophia on a late January afternoon that felt too bright for how cold it was.
She had slept badly the night before, the kind of sleep that left her more tired than rested, and she was hauling her art supplies back to her dorm from the studio she had been using last semester. The snow had fallen thick and suddenly overnight, softening the edges of campus and making everything look deceptively gentle. Her arms were full, her fingers numb, her breath coming out in short clouds.
She heard shouting first. Panicked, delighted shouting, echoing strangely off the stone.
Before her brain could sort out what was happening, something—no, someone—slammed into her from the side. The world tipped. Paint tubes clattered. Her sketchbook skidded across the ground. Yoonchae went down in a tangled heap, the cold seeping instantly through her coat.
“Oh my god, oh my god, I am so sorry,” a voice said immediately, breathless and frantic. “Are you okay? I swear I didn’t see you—are you hurt?”
Sophia was kneeling in the snow in front of her, eyes wide with genuine alarm, a dented dining hall lunch tray discarded nearby like a crime scene artifact. It took Yoonchae a second to register that the tray had been used as a sled, that the library steps behind them were apparently now a sanctioned disaster zone.
“I’m okay,” Yoonchae said, blinking. “I think.”
Sophia looked unconvinced. Her eyes flicked over Yoonchae quickly, checking elbows, hands, the way she was standing, like she was mentally running through a checklist. She helped her up anyway, fingers warm even through gloves, brushing snow from Yoonchae’s sleeves and collar with quick, careful motions. She apologized the entire time, words tumbling over each other, as if stopping would mean the guilt might catch up to her.
Yoonchae noted that Sophia was striking in a way that felt gentle rather than sharp. She had dark hair pulled back loosely, strands already escaping and dusted with snow, and a face that was soft-edged but expressive, brows always lifting as if she were mid-thought. Her coat was long and well-fitted, probably not suited for sledding, but it still looked and suggested that she cared about how she looked, even in winter. Her scarf was also wrapped neatly, with matching gloves tucked into her pockets. There was something undeniably feminine about her, in the way she moved and spoke, in the careful attention she paid to the people in front of her. She was already picking up some of Yoonchae’s supplies and putting them into the tote bag that Yoonchae had dropped.
Then, as if it were the most obvious next step in the world, she reached out and closed her hand around Yoonchae’s wrist.
“Okay,” Sophia said decisively, already turning them both toward the others. “You’re coming with us. I’m buying you food as an apology.”
Yoonchae barely had time to protest before she was being ushered along, her supplies redistributed, someone else scooping up her sketchbook, another person laughing and saying something about “sled casualties.” The whole thing moved too fast for her to object, and part of her did not want to.
The group Sophia dragged her into was loud and laughing and entirely unapologetic about what they had been doing. They were all sophomores, Yoonchae realized quickly, bonded by the easy chaos of people who already knew where they belonged. They crowded into a Jefes together, steam rising from coats, cheeks flushed from cold and adrenaline.
That was when Yoonchae really learned who Sophia was, because Sophia talked. Sophia must’ve been a bit drunk, Yoonchae thought, as she listened to the other girl ramble on and on about advocacy and campus politics and music and opera and concerts she wanted to see and injustices she was mad about and things she loved fiercely. The words poured out of her, fast and animated, hands moving constantly. Yoonchae barely had to say anything at all, which she loved. She could just sit back, eat the food they insisted on buying her, and listen. This was good. Sophia was a yapper, and Yoonchae was getting a free dinner. Very nice.
She noticed, idly at first, that Sophia sat very close to another girl, who was kind of feeding her bites before breaths. The girl was also Korean, though in a way that felt different, more relaxed, more American. Yoonchae suspected she was Korean-American, not South Korean like herself. They leaned into each other unconsciously, shoulders touching, knees brushing.
Sophia kept talking. And talking. Yoonchae saw some of the others in the group sharing small looks, raising eyebrows with mischievousness, and looking at the Korean girl next to Sophia.
Eventually, the other girl sighed, turned, and shut Sophia up with a kiss.
Yoonchae froze.
Oh, she thought distantly. Right. Gay people exist here.
It was not that she had never known this intellectually. It was just that growing up, everything she had absorbed from Korean media had framed gay people as strange, unnatural, something to whisper about or mock or pity. Sophia did not fit that category at all. Sophia was feminine and warm and loud and kind. Sophia had looked at Yoonchae with such concern when she had knocked her over, as if hurting her would have been unthinkable.
As the night went on, Sophia and the other girl — Emily, maybe, Yoonchae realized belatedly she had forgotten her name — continued to exist together in a way that felt ordinary and affectionate and completely unremarkable to everyone else. They joked. They shared food. They argued lightly. Nothing about it looked wrong or strange or shameful.
Something in Yoonchae shifted quietly.
When they finally left, Sophia insisted on walking with Yoonchae. It turned out they were headed in the same direction anyway. The snow crunched under their boots, the campus quieter now, wrapped in white. Sophia walked with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, shoulders relaxed now, as if she’d sobered up from whatever it was that she’d been running on earlier.
Yoonchae hesitated before speaking again.
“Hey, that girl who was sitting next to you… Is she your girlfriend?” she asked, carefully, like she was handling something fragile.
Sophia blinked, clearly surprised by the question. She let out a soft laugh and rubbed the back of her neck, cheeks pinking slightly, though it was unclear whether from cold or embarrassment.
“No, not really,” she said. “It’s more like… a casual thing. Not really a situationship even. We’re friends, though.”
“Oh,” Yoonchae said. She nodded slowly, filing the information away. Lara had mentioned casual dating before, offhand and unbothered, but hearing it again made the concept feel more real. “So, um… is that like normal here?”
“Hm, yes, overall,” Sophia said easily. “Especially in college.”
Yoonchae thought for a moment, then asked, “Do people talk about it first? Or do you just… know?”
Sophia smiled at that. “Usually, you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It depends on the people. Some people are more comfortable with casual, but I think most usually aren’t looking for that.”
“Ah,” Yoonchae said, “Sorry, I meant like — two girls dating?”
Sophia paused for half a step, the smile on her face softening into something more thoughtful rather than startled.
“Oh,” she said gently, understanding clicking into place. She slowed so they were walking in sync again, boots crunching quietly through the snow. “Yeah,” she continued. “That part is normal too. Two girls, two guys, whatever combination. It’s not really a big deal here. Small, woke, liberal arts college and all that… Sometimes I feel like every other person here is bisexual.”
Yoonchae nodded, absorbing that, and also kind of pretending like she knew what Sophia was referring to with the idea of “woke” being a factor. “So, like… people don’t stare or talk?”
“Sometimes they do,” Sophia said honestly. “But usually it’s just curiosity, or they move on. Most people mind their own business.”
“And,” Yoonchae added, hesitating only briefly, “you don’t have to, um, explain yourself?”
Sophia shook her head. “Not unless you want to. You don’t owe anyone a definition or a coming-out speech. Some people like labels, some people hate them. Both are fine. It’s mostly about honesty. With yourself, and with the other person, with people you’re interested in, et cetera.”
“Oh,” Yoonchae let out a quiet breath she had not realized she was holding. “That sounds… less scary than I thought. And a lot more normal, I guess.”
Sophia glanced at her, warm and curious. “A lot of things are, once someone actually explains them.” They walked a little farther before Sophia added, lightly, “You can ask anything, by the way. I promise I won’t be offended.”
“Do your parents know? About you liking girls?”
Sophia exhaled, thoughtful. “Mine do. Not everyone tells their family. Some people wait. Some people don’t tell them at all. I got pretty lucky, I’d say.”
Yoonchae nodded again. “Is it hard?”
“Sometimes,” Sophia said honestly. “Sometimes it’s also really easy.”
They walked a few steps in silence before Yoonchae asked, “Do people assume things about you?”
“All the time,” Sophia replied, amused. “You get used to correcting them.”
Yoonchae glanced at her. “I didn’t think you were gay.”
Sophia laughed, this time more openly. “Yeah,” she said gently. “A lot of people share that sentiment, but I know what and who I like.”
They kept walking, but something inside Yoonchae went very quiet after that. Not an uncomfortable silence, not the kind that demanded filling, but a deep one, like her thoughts had slipped underwater and were moving slowly there, distorted and heavy. She became acutely aware of the sound of her boots in the snow, of her breath fogging the air, of how cold her fingers were inside her gloves. She did not notice how long she had stopped speaking until Sophia slowed, then stopped altogether.
“Yoonchae,” Sophia said gently. “Is there something you want to say?”
They were standing in front of Sophia’s dorm. The building rose behind her, familiar and solid, its windows glowing warmly against the dark. Yoonchae blinked, disoriented, realizing she had followed Sophia here on instinct alone. She looked down at the ground, at the uneven footprints pressed into the snow, suddenly afraid of saying the wrong thing, or of saying something she could not take back.
“How did you know,” she asked finally, her voice quieter than she intended, “that you like girls?”
The question felt enormous the moment it left her mouth. Her heart beat faster, like it was bracing for impact.
Sophia did not answer right away. She shifted her weight slightly, hands still tucked into her coat pockets, her expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. She did not look surprised, which somehow made Yoonchae’s chest tighten even.
“I didn’t know all at once,” Sophia said after a moment. “It wasn’t like a lightning bolt or anything dramatic. It was more… noticing.” She smiled faintly. “There was this girl in high school who was a year older than me. Her name was Jen, and she was kind of like my gay awakening. I guess… like, one day I just started noticing that she was who I always looked for in rooms, and who I wanted to impress all the time. She was just really pretty and cool, and sometimes it scared me, but most of the time, I just wanted to be closer to her. And she made my chest feel weird in a good way.” She shrugged. “By the time I actually thought about it as a crush, I’d already kind of been noticing these things for a while.”
Yoonchae listened carefully, turning the words over in her mind, letting them echo and rearrange themselves. She tried to map them onto her own experiences, searching for something that clicked, and felt both blank and unsettled, like she had been handed a new language without a dictionary.
She thought, suddenly and vividly, of Lara. Of how effortlessly cool she was, how she took up space without asking permission, how Yoonchae had felt simultaneously intimidated and drawn in when she first saw the other girl in front of the Pleiades door. She thought of Manon, too, of the quiet confidence in the way she moved through rooms and between social groups, of how Yoonchae had noticed her before she had ever spoken to her and had catalogued her beauty almost unconsciously. And now Sophia, standing in front of her with snow dusting the hem of her coat, warm and attentive and so openly patient and kind.
Yoonchae could recognize the pattern Sophia was describing, at least on the surface. The gorgeous factor, the way beauty could feel almost overwhelming. The intimidation, the awareness of herself in their presence. The curiosity that pulled her closer instead of pushing her away. She could trace all of that in herself easily enough.
But she was not sure if that was the point. She was not sure if what she felt went beyond admiration, beyond wanting to learn from someone, or be noticed by them, or simply stand a little nearer to their orbit. She did not know if her chest had ever felt weird in the way Sophia meant, or if she had simply never had the words, or perhaps permission, to notice it if it had.
“Yoonchae,” Sophia said, a small smile tugging at her mouth, bringing Yoonchae out of her thoughts again. “Honey, are you questioning?”
Yoonchae frowned.
“I don’t even know what that means,” she admitted.
Sophia’s face softened instantly. “It just means you’re thinking about it,” she explained. “Or maybe unsure of who you might or might not like.”
The phrase lodged itself somewhere deep in Yoonchae’s chest. The story you were told. She thought of the narrow images she had grown up with, the jokes, the warnings, the way certain topics had simply not been topics at all. She thought of Sophia’s concern when she had knocked her over, of the casual affection at the dining hall table, of how ordinary it had all looked.
“I don’t know,” Yoonchae said quietly. After a pause, she added, “I guess I never thought about it before.”
“That’s okay,” Sophia said immediately, like she had been waiting to say it. “It’s okay if you are, and it’s okay if you’re not. There’s no rush. No deadline. No test you have to pass.” She smiled, steady and reassuring. “When you know, you know. And until then, you’re allowed to just exist with the question.”
Yoonchae nodded, feeling something inside her loosen, just a little. The question still sat there, unfamiliar and heavy, but it no longer felt dangerous. She looked up at Sophia, grateful in a way she did not yet have the words to explain.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Sophia smiled back. “Anytime.” There was a small pause, then, the moment where people usually said goodbye and turned away. Instead, Sophia spoke again.
“Hey,” she said, casual but careful. “Can I get your number?”
Yoonchae blinked.
For half a second, her brain short-circuited. Heat crept up her neck, settling in her cheeks. Her thoughts scrambled, irrational and sudden. Why does she want my number? The idea sparked, uninvited and alarming, and she felt a flicker of panic at the possibility that she might be misunderstanding something important.
“Uh,” Yoonchae said, a little too quickly.
Sophia noticed immediately. She laughed softly and lifted her hands in surrender. “Oh — sorry. Not like that,” she said gently. “I just think questioning can be kind of scary sometimes. And if you ever want to talk about it, I’m always here. Like, count me in as a new friend.”
Relief washed over Yoonchae so fast it almost made her dizzy. She nodded, fumbling for her phone, grateful she had not said anything that would have haunted her later.
“Okay,” she said, smiling now, genuine and warm. “I’d like that.”
They exchanged numbers, fingers brushing briefly, and then Sophia waved and disappeared into her building, footsteps echoing faintly in the lobby. Yoonchae turned and headed down the block toward her own freshman dorm, snow still drifting lazily from the sky.
Halfway there, she glanced down at her phone.
Sophia had already saved her contact on the phone.
sophia laforteza (🌈sledder)
The small rainbow emoji next to her name stood out against the gray of the contact app and the white of the falling snow.
Yoonchae smiled to herself, tucked her phone back into her pocket, and continued walking home — this time, just with a few more questions on her mind and a new contact saved.
Yoonchae went to the dance troupe’s final performance because Dani told her she should, and because Dani rarely said things without meaning them. She took a seat near the front, folding her hands together in her lap, telling herself she was there to support a friend and nothing more.
Then the lights went down.
The hip-hop piece hit first, sharp and pulsing, and Yoonchae’s attention snapped immediately to the center of the stage. There was a girl there—no, the girl—framed by the others without being swallowed by them. Pink highlights cut through her dark hair, soft bangs catching the light every time she moved. And the way she moved… good lord. Yoonchae had not known someone could contain that much motion without tumbling over. Every step landed with intention, every turn clean and full, her body both precise and loose, like she was speaking fluently in a language the rest of the room only half understood.
Yoonchae felt it almost physically, the urge to reach for her sketchbook. She could see the lines already, the arc of an arm, the tilt of a shoulder, the way the pink caught the light just long enough to matter. Her fingers twitched uselessly against her coat instead. She had not brought it. Of course, she had not brought it.
Instead, she pulled out her phone.
She recorded a video, careful and restrained, zooming in just slightly. Not enough to draw attention, not enough for the people beside her to think she was being strange. Just enough that the girl with the pink bangs stayed in frame. Just enough that Yoonchae could watch her again later, slow the movement down, and try to understand how someone could look that alive on a stage.
The program went on. Piece after piece. Different styles, different rhythms. Yoonchae realized, with a start, that the troupe was incredible. They moved through dances rooted in different cultures and histories, blending them seamlessly with mainstream hip-hop and pop. She forgot to be self-conscious, forgot to check the time. At some point, she noticed Dani again—Dani, who had been in that first hip-hop choreography alongside the pink-haired girl—now transformed, hair pulled back, body held differently, gliding through a ballroom piece with elegant restraint. Yoonchae laughed quietly at herself, aware she might actually run out of storage if she kept filming.
When the dancers came out afterward to greet the audience, the energy in the room was buoyant and warm. Dani found her easily and, still glowing with sweat and adrenaline, pulled her forward.
“Yoonchae!” Dani said, beaming, an arm still thrown over another dancer’s shoulders. “My freshie baby.”
Yoonchae mentally groaned. Still just a freshie.
The girl with the pink bangs turned, smiling widely, close enough now that Yoonchae could see the whiskey dimples in her cheeks, the way the color in her hair looked even brighter up close.
“Yoonchae, this is Megan,” Dani continued. “My co-choreographer. She’s the co-lead for the main hip-hop piece — she’s also a freshie!”
Oh.
Yoonchae smiled, nodded, said something polite she would not remember later, and hoped her voice sounded normal. Up close, Megan was even prettier than she had been under stage lights. The pink bangs framed her face softly, darker now in the low light, her cheeks still flushed from dancing, eyes bright and alert, like she was still riding the adrenaline of performance.
“You killed it out there,” Yoonchae said, and then, before she could stop herself, added, “You’re… you’re also really pretty. I love your pink.”
The words startled her even as they left her mouth.
Megan blinked, then broke into an easy, delighted laugh. “Thank you,” she said, like it was the least alarming thing anyone had ever said to her. She touched her own bangs, gently, as if forgetting that they were there. “Wish I could tell my mom right now that there’s at least one person who thinks it looks good.”
Conversation and introductions blurred together soon after that, and somehow, Yoonchae was dragged to a small dorm party by Dani and Megan (and also accompanied by Jonah).
At the dorm party, Yoonchae was certain she only had a single shot with Dani before the older girl was promptly whisked away by Jonah, who had appeared with two more drinks and a conspiratorial grin. Dani shot Yoonchae a thumbs-up over Megan’s shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.
Yoonchae became acutely aware that she had been left standing there, in a room full of primarily upperclassmen in a dance troupe she was completely unfamiliar with. She was also suddenly aware that Megan had not moved away. If anything, Megan had leaned in slightly, curious.
“So,” Megan said brightly, “Yoonchae. Dani’s been talking about you a lot.”
“Oh,” Yoonchae said faintly, trying to recall if Dani had any blackmailable knowledge on her. “She has?”
“Yeah,” Megan said. “The goated last-minute DJ for her consulting group? She said you have good music taste.” She grinned. “You’re kind of legendary already. Have you thought about mixing for the troupe?”
That was how it happened, somehow. Dani vanished, and Megan stayed. Or maybe Megan chose to stay. Yoonchae found herself with Megan on the edge of the party at first, then drifting closer to the center, then back out again, orbiting each other easily. Someone handed Yoonchae a drink. Then another. She lost track of how much she drank, only registering the warmth in her limbs and the way the room felt softer around the edges.
Megan talked. After the alcohol hit, she was not speaking nervously, not to fill space, but in fact extremely enthusiastically, like she had been waiting all night to tell someone everything. She talked about choreography and how she and Dani had argued for weeks over counts, about how she had dyed her hair pink on a whim after finals because she needed something to change, about growing up in Hawai’i and dancing in studios that smelled like sweat and hairspray. She talked about music she loved, about how certain songs made her feel unstoppable, about how she had almost quit dance entirely before college and then somehow fallen back in love with it.
Yoonchae listened, rapt. Megan gestured with her hands when she spoke, eyes lighting up, mouth curling into expressive shapes that Yoonchae found herself watching far too closely. Her lips looked soft. Her laughter came easily, spilling out of her without restraint.
“You’re really quiet,” Megan observed at one point, as they were filling up their cup with whatever the punch mix was. Yoonchae had lost track.
“I like listening,” Yoonchae said, and meant it.
“Good. I talk a lot.” Megan smiled at that. “Wanna get another drink with me?”
Yoonchae laughed softly. The thought of Sophia surfaced unexpectedly, warm and fond, despite the blurriness of everything around her. Another yapper. Another person whose voice filled the space unapologetically. Sophia’s words drifted through her head, gentle and grounding: You’re allowed to just exist with the question. The memory steadied her even as the night grew hazier.
She did not know exactly when Megan’s hand brushed her arm, or how close they were now. She didn’t remember how she ended up on this sofa, or when she closed her eyes, or why her head was supported, even though she very much felt like she was falling asleep. She just knew that Megan had looked beautiful in the low light, eyes bright and reflective, pink bangs catching the glow from the lamp above them. She knew that when Megan spoke, she leaned in, like she wanted Yoonchae to hear every word.
At some point, she opened her eyes again, and the lights were on, and she vaguely heard a familiar voice saying, “That’s okay, you said she lives in that area, right? I’m kinda down that block. I’ll get her back to her dorm.”
Yoonchae remembered Dani’s voice answering, calm and sure. “Wait, Jonah, and I can help… You sure? Okay, can you just text me when she’s back in her dorm then?”
In the morning, Yoonchae woke with her head pounding and her phone dangerously warm in her hand. Surprisingly enough, it was plugged in and charged, which Yoonchae didn’t recall doing. She groaned, then froze as she opened the phone to her camera roll. Her camera roll was full of selfies that she herself did not take — her face flushed red from alcohol, eyes glassy and bright. Megan’s pink bangs appeared in the corner of nearly every frame, sometimes her smile, sometimes just a blur of color, like she had leaned in without hesitation.
On her nightstand sat a scrap of paper, folded once. There was messy handwriting, a phone number, and a smiley face.
So much fun! We should hang out again. I woud would have just called myself from your phone but it was dead LOL.
-Megs 808-224-2868
Yoonchae stared at it for a long moment, heart thudding. Sophia’s voice echoed faintly in her mind — when you know, you know.
She pressed her face into her pillow.
She could still see the color pink lingering.
Sometimes it was cute, and sometimes it was annoying, having so many people dote on her all the time.
Manon would freak out the moment Yoonchae so much as cleared her throat, even though it had been months since she was last sick. Sophia always bought extra food on the way home, dropping them off outside of her freshman dorm lobby, to the point where Yoonchae’s fridge was permanently overstuffed with snacks she could never realistically finish. Lara forwarded her DJ gigs constantly, all tagged with no pressure and just in case you want some quick money hehe, even when Yoonchae had not asked. Dani got her free last-minute tickets to art shows and concerts through her consulting club, like it were the most natural thing in the world.
Yoonchae was grateful. She always had been. She just sometimes felt the weight of it — the quiet reminder threaded through all that care that she was the youngest, that she was being looked after.
It occurred to her, later, that being the youngest was also how she ended up everywhere.
She overlapped. She drifted between people and places that were not meant to touch, except that she existed in the narrow space where they did. But she also got to spend time with Megan because of it. With Megan, the time they spent together was not borrowed or incidental. They were freshmen. They happened to be taking the same English literature class — albeit for very different reasons — and their schedules somewhat matched. They studied together. Well, it was more like Megan’s dyslexia would act up, so then Yoonchae would practice reading out loud the essay they had to close read, which often took way longer than expected, but it was still fun.
All this studying also meant that they ate late dinners together. They lay on dorm beds scrolling through phones, feet knocking together absentmindedly, music playing softly in the background. Yoonchae liked those moments best, the ones where nothing was happening, and that was the point.
She liked that Megan talked a lot. About dance rehearsals that ran too long, about how her hips always ached after hip-hop nights, about how she felt split between loving performance and being terrified of failing publicly. She liked that Megan would ramble and then stop suddenly, looking at Yoonchae like she was checking whether she was still there. It kind of reminded her of Sophia.
By early May, the weather had softened enough that they were sitting in booths with sleeves rolled up, sunlight slanting in through wide windows. They sat on the same side of the booth without thinking about it anymore, shoulders touching, knees brushing under the table. Megan ordered a lobster roll because she wanted Yoonchae to try it. After all, it was supposedly the best one in the city.
“Here,” Megan said, tearing it in half and holding one piece out to her. “You have to try it.”
Yoonchae leaned in and took a bite, sauce catching at the corner of her mouth.
“How’s it?” Megan asked eagerly. “Isn’t it so good? Do you feel like you're just going through a life-changing, transformative experience?”
“It’s really good,” Yoonchae said simply, meaning it. “Juicy.”
“Mhm, that’s the butter,” Megan said, pleased. “Here, take another, ahh —”
Yoonchae leaned in again without thinking, and for a brief, strange second, she saw Emily feeding Sophia back in January, the memory arriving uninvited and sharp. The image passed almost immediately, but something else stayed. Megan was looking at her in a way that was soft and fond and unmistakably careful, like she was paying attention to something she cared about.
And then it clicked.
The realization arrived quietly, almost sheepishly, like something that had been waiting patiently to be noticed. Yoonchae thought of all the dinners they had gone to together, how they always sat close to each other at a group dinner, or on the same side of the table, how Megan insisted on paying for coffee or dinner or lunch because she had “dragged” Yoonchae there. As if Yoonchae hadn’t gone willingly — as if Yoonchae wasn’t starting to look forward to every side question Megan was suggesting. Yoonchae thought of the night she had accidentally fallen asleep in Megan’s bed, when they were trying to choose courses and build reasonable schedules for their next semester, and then waking hours later with pink hair filling her field of vision, Megan breathing evenly beside her, close enough to feel warm. She thought of how her chest had done something strange and pleasant then, something she had ignored, thinking they were just best friends.
She thought of how Megan always walked Yoonchae back to her dorm, even when it was out of the way. Of how she remembered Yoonchae’s coffee order and sometimes brought coffee to the library for her without asking. Of how Yoonchae felt lighter around her, steadier, like her body knew where it belonged before her mind caught up.
None of it was dramatic. All of it felt good.
“Oh,” Yoonchae said suddenly.
Megan paused mid-smile. “Oh?”
“I —” Yoonchae laughed softly, a little breathless, because the clarity made her feel ridiculous for not seeing it sooner. “I like you, unnie.”
Megan blinked, then laughed, words tumbling out in her usual unfiltered way, as she put down the lobster roll she was holding to pick up a napkin and wipe her hands, which were covered in butter. “Okay, good? Well, I was really hoping you did, otherwise I’d have to deem you an opp, and I’d much rather have you as a friend than an enemy, so — ”
“No,” Yoonchae interrupted gently, her heart racing. She reached out without thinking, tugging at Megan’s sleeve so that the girl was looking at her. “I like you, unnie. Like, I like waking up next to you, and I like it when it’s just the two of us.” Yoonchae glanced down at her hand, then back up, cheeks warm. “And I want to hold your hand,” she added, earnest and a little shy since Megan was still kind of looking surprised. “Even though it’s all covered in butter right now.”
“Megan?” Yoonchae said after seeing that the other girl hadn’t responded and was still just staring at her.
Megan inhaled, then let out a small, almost disbelieving laugh. “I kind of always thought so,” she admitted. “It just… feels strange hearing it from you.”
Yoonchae’s heart dipped sharply. For a split second, panic flared — oh no, did I read this wrong — but Megan hurried on, as if noticing the shift immediately.
“Wait,” Megan said quickly. “I mean, strange in a good way. Because — like, same. Very much same.”
Megan stared at her for a beat, then laughed softly, eyes bright, and turned her hand over anyway, letting Yoonchae’s fingers lace with hers, buttery and warm and real. “Okay, now, how are we supposed to finish the lobster rolls?”
Yoonchae did not answer right away. She was too busy staring at Megan’s hand in hers, at the way their fingers fit together without effort. The warmth was immediate, grounding, like something had settled into place. There was definitely still a bit of butter between their palms, which felt a little ridiculous, but it also felt strangely perfect, and it felt like proof that this moment was not imagined or polished or fragile.
For a second, Yoonchae forgot where they were. She forgot there was food in front of them at all. Then she remembered Megan had asked her a question.
“I’m sure we’ll find a way,” Yoonchae said simply.
And it was pretty much the best lobster roll of all time.