11:21 AM

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“H-Hey … Hey …?”

You’re used to mornings.

To wincing whenever your head hits the headboard while you blindly shift around in bed. To the lingering traces of dreams before they fade completely from memory. To the burden of having to go against indomitable inertia just to push out of the sheets and get yourself ready for what’s ahead.

What you aren’t used to is seeing your bandmate tucked against you oh-so-closely like this at eleven-twenty-one in the morning.

What you aren’t used to is waking up next to Kim Jiwon.

When you open your eyes and see her bathed browns glinting back at you, she screams out loud. Making you scream out loud. And it’s only when you feel the full untangling of your layered legs and the arm you previously had around her waist that you realize how ‘intimately’ you had been sleeping together on your bed.

In an attempt to escape the predicament, Jiwon pushes you off the mattress, sending you crashing onto one shoulder.

“Ouch …”

You hear shuffling on the bed before you see a messy-haired Jiwon peeking down over the edge at you. “O-Oppa … s-s-sorry about that …”

Her last words send a ringing through your skull, and suddenly, it all comes crashing down at once.

The gurgling in your gut just before the curtains could lift. The pressure crushing against your chest as the audience is revealed to you and the conductor waves his baton. The smile blooming across her face when she celebrates your award-winning performance at the nationals. The shy retreat of her fingers from yours when they bump while walking to your place. The fluffed and lined up row of pillows meant to separate your space from hers on the bed.

When your mind finally settles onto her again, Jiwon’s pouting at you while you recover from being flung off your own bed, cheeks forming dimples even when she’s all sulky. “S-So … that … happened …”

Rubbing your aching forehead, you try to wave off her apology with a smile. “It’s fine. What happened to our pillow blockade?”

As if in reply, she points at the pillows around your bed, which just like you, have been evicted of their posts some time in the night.

“Right. Did you get any sleep last night? I was worried about whether, you know, I should have taken the couch instead,” you mumble, hoisting yourself up into a stand.

“I slept ok … Did you get to rest, oppa?”

You nod, flashing her a hearty thumbs-up.

Your eyes burn holes into the stacked casings of your instruments against one corner of your room as you realize what this meant.

You shared the same bed with your bandmate, Kim Jiwon.

You think back. Back to where it all began. From before last night. From before any of this.

You and Jiwon have been a part of your college’s symphonic band. She plays the oboe. You play the euphonium. Although you’re in different sections, you’ve gotten to know each other during tutti rehearsals. You’ve helped her with her solos once or twice, and she’s helped you every so often with carrying your euphonium around. But beyond that, you’ve rarely really talked to each other—or let alone met with each other—outside of practice. And before you know it, you’re caught up in this flittering flutterstorm that is Kim Jiwon.

And now you’re here. In bed with her. Not having remembered how exactly you’ve both managed the night like this.

Well, you’re off the bed now, but the point still stands. As you pick up the remaining pillows, you recall it was your idea to offer Jiwon a place to stay given the heavy downpour after the competition. Her place is three hours from the concert hall, and there’s no telling if any buses would still be around from the rain.

So when you glance at the curled up Jiwon, you can’t help but feel like this predicament is all your fault.

It’s a foreign feeling—having someone more than a stranger but less than a friend in your home.

Neither of you have said a word about it for a bit now. But how can you? The moment you so much as even try to formulate a thought in your head, you’re immediately met with the tall and sharp of her nose as her sideview greets you through messy strands of hair. The curl and plump of her lips as she flutters them open and shut in thought. The tuck of her visage into her shoulder as she tries to hide getting rid of the morning glories from her eyes.

“I hope I didn’t scare you. Did I?”

You hope that leading with such a question will help get her out of her shell. When she peeks up from her crossed arms, she purses her lips and shakes her head. “N-No, oppa … Sorry if I overreacted. I just thought … you know …?”

You cross your heart and curl your pointer and middle finger together. “I promise. I wouldn’t lay a single finger on you, Jiwon.”

She smiles looking relieved, but there’s a fleck of melancholy in her eyes. “Thank you … I’ve … um, I’ve never really slept over … at someone else’s apartment before …”

You chuckle and gesture all around you. “My place is yours. Get cozy. Do you want some water? Tea? Coffee?”

“T-Tea … please …”

While you boil some water and steep the tea, Jiwon makes herself comfortable by your dining table, pulling up a chair and fiddling with her phone. At some point, she takes out her earphones, plugs them in, and in moments, she’s drifting off into a whole other world of her own.

Settling the mugs down, you slide hers over and take a sip from yours. “What’s that? Bach?”

“B-Britten, actually. Six Metamorphoses after Ovid.”

“Do you mind if I …?” you trail, not wanting to overwhelm her all of a sudden. She hesitates for a moment, plucking at the cord before ultimately handing one bud to you.

Leaning forward, you press a finger to it and furrow your brows.

It’s in the middle of the piece. Based on the sheet music she has pulled up on her phone, this segment’s labelled ‘Bacchus’. You hear a brief allegro before the notes start to become sharper and more stunted. You listen in disbelief as you realize this piece feels like quite the challenge to anyone who plays the oboe.

Once it’s over, you return the bud to her. When your fingers connect, she pulls back almost immediately and dumps the coil of wire into her pocket. “Y-Yeah … that’s … I-I just wanted to listen to that before practicing next week …”

“We’ve just won the nationals and you’re already thinking of the next competition?”

She wilts, hair draping down the sides of her face as she realizes her farce.

“No—I … no no no, it’s ok. It’s alright. I was just amazed,” you explain, setting your cup down. “You always give it your all during practice. It’s no wonder you’re the ace of the woodwinds since our first year.”

“Stop …” she mumbles, face blushing like a beet.

You smile and shake your head. “Tell me more about the piece,” you ask, hoping to shift away from her embarrassment.

“It’s from Ovid … the poet? He wrote this um … piece called Metamorphoses. So each act in Britten’s is supposed to be a character.”

“Hence the Bacchus. Roman god of wine was it?”