Divergence

male reader x NewJeans/NJZ Minji

Tags: angst, smut (but it’s absolutely not the focus), polars, friendstolovers/enemiestolovers, general incoherence, time. time. time

21k words

For anyone else, it'd be impossible to know her this well. And that's the thing. You're not sure how to juggle this. You and her. Her and her. The fact that you've seen every facet of her being. The good, the bad, the ugly. That you can't leave her. You're an epiphyte, non-sessile, and every moment she's still there.

Your mother said the two of you created destiny when you were born. Same antenatal classes, same expected term. You remember it to the dot. Five minutes and forty-four seconds younger. Just barely.

Your brain hadn't even developed, so how were you expected to know that that was when it all began?

You couldn't know how much you'd learn to hate her- You couldn't know how much she'd be by your side.

And you get it. Every single moment you get it. It's high school. It's the time for firsts. First loves, first experiences. First time falling, not in the kiddish way, the way you trip over a rock and scrape skin on asphalt. In the adult way, holding onto another's hand like you're clutching mom's too tight.

Everyone's been telling you she's pretty. You? You don't feel that way. You've seen her face too long. You know it too well. She's objectively beautiful, sure, but subjectively she carved out her own definition of herself ages ago. It's too complicated to get into what that means, because at the end of the day, subjectivity is no definite meaning.

Kim Minji. Small face, fragile eyes. Sometimes she doesn't look like she's really there. Real, tangible, existing in a universe. She was born for all the right things.

You've seen for real when she's at her best- You've seen for real when she's at her worst.

She loves you- she hates you.

She's your best friend- she's your worst enemy.

She hurts- you blister.

Twelve at noon and already she's spinning around you, hand on arm, tugging you along. Cheese kimbap on the lunch menu- she can't miss it.

“You're gonna make me late," she growls, eyes forward, parting the sea of brown uniforms and black skirts.

“And you're making this all about you again. Seriously, you need to take it easy," you chuckle, half a smile on as you glide behind her.

“That's not the point," Minji snaps, creating gaps for the two of you to slip through with the heat of her gaze alone. “Your problems are my problems. I care, so when you need help, I'm there. If nothing else, it's kind of in my job description."

And you know. Class President Minji. Head Prefect Minji. Perfectly-pressed uniform, face of the school Minji. She said she found her purpose here, making use of all her god-given talents the way they were always made to be used, to stand taller, a head above the rest.

That's how she's always been.

The doors to the infirmary swing open, Minji striding in like all the nurses there- some two or three times older than her- belong to her.

“Ma'am, injury," Minji states, lifting your arm up by the wrist to show the nearest nurse your excoriated elbow. You glance at the red patch you were awarded with just five minutes ago, a result of ignorance. The sting's already faded, and you don't really need this, but well, she'll just cite protocol or something.

“Could you get him a plaster? And disinfect the wound?"

The nurse nods, giving Minji an obedient nod and shooting you a slightly perturbed look for inconveniencing her day. You blink, both of you staring at absolutely nothing happening for a couple of seconds.

“I got it, you know," you finally say, eager to help her along, “you don't have to stick around to watch me get patched up. Go get your kimbap."

Minji flicks her eyes to yours, mind finally chugging along. Her painfully tight grip on your wrist loosens.

“Right. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

You wave her off with a small hand signal, and she offers a wry smile, eyes lingering till she crosses the doorway.

“Stop creating headaches for me," Minji bites, head turned to the side on the last step to the doorway, “you'd think you're old enough to know how to take care of yourself."

You resist the urge to snap back, sighing. You're tired, and the faster she gets out of your hair, the better.

The nurse wheels over on her rolling chair, plaster and antiseptic in hand, nudging towards the bed beside her for you to sit down so she can get on with it. You hardly wince when she rubs the swab into your skin with more force than necessary. Like you said, it hardly stings. When she's done, she tells you you can go, but is fine with you staying for a few minutes.

You brush your finger across the plaster absentmindedly, eyes glancing down to it. The design is familiar, startling you. You're surprised this Doraemon version still exists, ten years later. And it's oddly topical. Your eyes turn to outside the window and immediately you're ten years back, when Minji was just as much a headache as she is now. The kind of memory that makes you feel like nothing's changed.

“You need a plaster for that," you murmur, crouched next to Minji, splattered on the playground floor.

Short hair, purple dress. The Minji of this age is a forgotten memory, someone only her family can recall. And you, of course.

“No I don't," Minji grunts, slowly picking herself up from the floor. You notice the dirt on her cheek, the significant gash on her forearm. You probably look callous.

“Yeah you do. Mom says that when it gets red and wet, you need to cover it up. With a plaster."

“Well I don't need your plaster," Minji retorts, pushing herself to her knees.

You watch her again, every detail on her firm, youthful face.

“Is she alright?"

You turn your head to Minhyun. “She's got a cut. She can't play."

“I can play," Minji growls.

You turn back to her, eyes cool. You stand back up, leaving her to pick herself back up.

“You're stubborn." You say simply, walking away.

You skip lunch, which is fine.

You twirl your pen idly in your hand, utilising dozens of memorised finger tricks, spinning it over the hollow between thumb and forefinger. You're early to the next lesson.

In your head, you replay the scene one more time, the last play that got you injured. You had the ball, and you were dribbling it forward. Passed the first defender with two gentle touches, easy, and the next provided more of a challenge. A quick one two, forcing the scenario where the only option was a pass back to you.

And you'd have made the shot too, if the idiot hadn't tugged at your sleeve and brought both of you to the floor.

And right then and there, Minji had appeared, like she had known. Like she'd been waiting all along to catch you in that moment. Triumphant, towering over you, like she's won something. And you already feel, before you even look up and see, the shadows of her hair across your cheek.

She gives you a cursory scan, like reading lines off a script. Barely even there.