Prologue

She watches you. Out in the hallway, peeking through the window. Watches the way you casually sit on your desk, leg propped on your chair. The way you throw your head back when you laugh, loud enough that it echoes down the hallway. She watches your forearms flex as you shove someone’s shoulder, his protests drowned out by your grin.

Park Minju has always liked to watch this classroom, liked to watch you. Bassist for the school band. The one everyone gravitated towards without quite knowing why. She does—has watched you long enough to. All the girls have a crush on you, and she’s no exception. But she has one advantage over the others.

She feels a shove at her back—pressed against the wall by the newly arriving girls that came to watch you. The air is suffocating. Shoulders press against hers on both sides, blocking her view. Someone has too much perfume on, and she can’t breathe properly.

You turn to the commotion outside the classroom, and you see her, surrounded on all sides. Your smile drops slightly, worry etched across your face.

“Minju!” She looks up, face red, and sees you, waving, unhurried, as if the crowd behind her doesn’t exist. And just like that, everyone backs away. She takes two deep breaths, smooths her cardigan and skirt before entering the classroom. The noise from the hallway fades behind her. In here, she can hear your voice clearly now, the low rumble of your laugh she’d recognise anywhere.

She ignores the weight of stares she’s learned to walk through like they’re nothing.

See, the one advantage she has over the others is that she’s known you all her life.

“What are you doing here?”

She scowls at the voice before she even sees who it belongs to, her nose scrunching in irritation. She already knows.

The one disadvantage she has is that you are her brother’s best friend.

It isn’t unusual to find yourself in their home. It’s practically your second home. Their parents always welcome you, always invite you to stay the night.

It’s even less unusual to find yourself in their kitchen.

You roll your sleeves up as you drop three packets of noodles into the pot of boiling water, stirring slightly, waiting for it to soften before adding the rest of the ingredients: the soup packets, spring onions, maybe a bit of cheese.

Once done, you pour them into three separate bowls, one of them has a bit more than the others, before placing them on the dining table. You move again, this time to grab empty glasses and a jug of water.

“Why does she get the bigger one?”

You pour her water first, not looking up at your friend before answering. “Make more yourself if you’re that hungry.” You turn to face her. “Eat up.”

You’re already turning back to the table, moving to sit down, missing the way Minju’s cheek tinge bright pink, and the way she softly slaps herself as if that would help calm her down.

(It doesn’t)

She stares at you as you talk to her brother, wishing it was her instead. But what would she say? What could she say? Every conversation with you has been surface level. No deep discussions, no confessions, nothing beyond ‘how are you?’ and ‘good.’ and it’s all your fault. The way you maintain eye contact, how you patiently wait for her to get her words out, even when her throat closes up or her mind goes blank staring back at you.

It’s infuriating that you affect her so much, annoying that you have no clue about it either.

She watches as you become more animated telling a story. The way your arms start flailing around or the way every time you smile, your dimples come out. Her eyes travel to your neck, gazes as your adam’s apple bobs with every slurp of noodles.

Some soup splashes onto you, and she’s already half out of her seat, ready to get a tissue. Except, you’re wearing an apron. How could she forget you’re wearing an apron. And not just any apron. The apron her mom bought her when she had that fleeting dream of becoming a chef.

(That lasted two months)

“… don’t understand why we have to study! My brain hurts…”

That caught Minju’s attention.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Your brother’s being an idiot again.” You sigh as you take another bite of your ramyeon.

“When am I going to ever need,” he stares at the title of the worksheet, “the Pythagorean theorem in my life?”

You ignore his whining, turning to face Minju.

“What about you? Does your dream involve finding the length of one side of a triangle?”

She hesitates before answering quietly. “N—no… I want to be an idol…”

You hear laughter. Her brother.

“You? An idol? Don’t you have to be an E? How can you be an idol when you’re an extreme I?” Her brother asks between fits of laughter.

You watch her look down at her hands, wringing. She slowly slides down the chair, face red in embarrassment.

You smack her brother on the head before looking back at her, ignoring his cries.

“I think you’d be a great idol.”

Minju’s eyes grow wide looking at you, already sitting up. “R—really?”

You nod. “I do. You should audition.” You’re already back to your noodles, mouth over the bowl before you continue. “You already have one fan in me.”

You turn back to her, and you smile that smile, dimples prominent, eyes in crescent shapes, head tilted ever so slightly, noodles hanging out.

If it was possible, Minju’s face would be even redder than it is. Her heart pounds hard against her chest. It feels loud, like you could hear it if you try hard enough. She smiles, and nods. “Th—thank you.”

You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. There’s something about the way she looks at you—like you promised her the world instead of believing in her. It makes your chest feel weird. Warm.

You look away first, back to your noodles, before you do something stupid like keep staring.

Later that night, you’re crashing at their place as you always do. The room is dark except for the light from the lamp post peeking through and from your phone. The floor is hard against your back, but warm. You’re scrolling through your phone when you hear rustling from the bed above.

Your best friend.

He sits up and turns to you, doesn’t say anything for a minute.

“You know she’s going to audition now,” he finally says. “After what you said.”

You don’t look at him, eyes trained on the phone but not absorbing anything. “And she should. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”

“She’s always wanted to audition. You were just the final push she needed.”

You hum, thumb frozen on your phone. You don’t know why that makes your chest tight.

He stays quiet for a long time, long enough that you crane your neck up to face him. “You’re good to her, you know. A better brother than I could ever be. Walking her home and shit. Just… don’t give her hope.”