Epilogue

Yooyeon steps out the bedroom, wearing an oversized white t-shirt—the name of her latest tour printed across her chest. It swallows her frame, falling to just below her knees, one shoulder exposed.

“Good morning.”

You hum without looking up, eyes locked on the countdown timer in the corner of your laptop screen. Two minutes. 1 minute and 59 seconds now. 58. 57.

“What are you doing?” She asks, padding into the small kitchen. You hear the cabinet open, the clink of a bowl, the rush of cereal hitting ceramic. Milk pouring.

When you don’t answer, her footsteps return. You feel her standing on the other side of the table, bowl in hand, the sound of her spoon hitting the bowl the only noise in your apartment.

“I’m waiting in line. For tickets. To your concert.”

Silence. Then—

“What?”

You risk a glance up. She’s staring at you, spoon halfway to her mouth, milk spilling back into the bowl, her expression caught between amusement and disbelief.

“I’m in line,” you say slowly, like you're explaining it to a child, “to get tickets to your new concert.”

She chews deliberately, letting you sit in it. “Why? You know I can get you tickets, right?”

You shake your head. “No. I want the full fan experience. Waiting in line. Buying tickets. All of it.”

She snorts mid-swallow. Chokes. Her hand flies to her mouth as she coughs, eyes watering, shoulders shaking with laughter she’s trying to suppress.

“You’re—” she coughs again, “—you’re so stupid.”

You look up—really look—and your breath catches.

No makeup, hair still messy from sleep. The morning light from the window behind you catches on her face, softening her edges. You’re so used to seeing her on screens now—stage lights, camera-ready, untouchable.

This version tightens something in your chest every time.

A ping from your laptop snaps your attention back.

The timer hits zero. The page reloads.

SOLD OUT.

“What?” Your mouse clicks uselessly. Refresh. Refresh. “No. No. No. Are you serious?”

The screen doesn’t change.

She’s moved behind you, head just over your shoulder, laughing. Not sympathetic. Delighted.

You freeze. Turn to her slowly.

“Yooyeon.” Pause. “Baby.” She cringes at that. You hold up one finger. “Can I please have one ticket?”

She stands up straight, taps her chin, pretending to think about it. “Mm… no.”

“Why not?” You’re whining now and you don’t care.

She braces one hand on the table and leans in. Close enough that your eyes drop to her mouth without permission.

“You said you wanted that fan experience,” she murmurs, moving until her lips nearly brush your ear. “Experience not going.”

You snap your head toward her, eyes wide. She’s already smiling—that smile. Eyes creasing into crescents, cheeks high.

“That’s not fair! You distracted me!”

You stand, your chair scraping against the floor. She’s already moving, circling around the table as you lunge right. She dodges left, laughing, the sound bright and unguarded. She nearly trips over a chair leg, stumbles before recovering. You feint towards the bedroom. She breaks for the couch.

You catch her around the waist just as she tries to dart past the window.

You both collapse onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs, breathless.

You start pressing kisses everywhere you can reach—forehead, nose, the corner of her mouth, her cheek.

“Ew—stop—” She’s laughing, squirming, not actually trying to escape. “Alright, alright!”

You pull back just enough to see her face. She’s grinning.

So are you.

“Yeah? Can I get VIP? Maybe a one-on-one photo with Kotone?”

Her smile sharpens. “Don’t push your luck.”

——

A month later, you’re at the front door, coat on, car keys in hand.

You pull out your phone to check the ticket one last time—VIP, front row, Section A—and you can’t help the smile.

A text comes through before you can pocket it.

Yooyeon: Do you like it?

An image loads.

Blonde. She’s blonde now.

The photo’s clearly taken in a dressing room—bright lights ringing a mirror behind her, group mates blurred in the background, moving. But she’s in focus. Hair falling just past her shoulders, wavy, lighter than you’ve ever seen it, framing her face in a way that makes her look both familiar and completely ethereal.

Your throat goes dry.

You stare at the photo longer than you should.