Chapter Text
The first time Mira saw Rumi, she was standing in the corner of the room by the catering table, surrounded by Jinu and his friends. They’d been laughing at something one of them had said or done. In their hands, each of them had a glass of champagne. Rumi held hers delicately by the stem of the glass, bringing it to her lips in the hopes that the others wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t laughing. That she hadn’t been; there hadn’t even been a flicker of amusement across her lips the entire time. Then Mira saw the twinkle of a diamond on Rumi’s finger.
Engaged, of course. To him of all people.
Mira rolled back her shoulders and tilted up the sharp point of her chin. She remembered the way she brought her fingers to her wrist, readjusting her sheer sleeve. That night, she’d worn a jumpsuit. It’d been tailored specifically for this event. It was burgundy, with a plunging v-neckline that drew attention to the jut of her collarbones, which she had painted gold with body glitter. A sun pendant, which hung from a lariat necklace, dangled at the crest of her cleavage. Intricate embroidery emphasized the supple cinch of her waist. Behind her, she felt the swish of her chiffon overlay. Sharp heels clicked across the marble floor as she walked.
Rows of chandeliers, as if more than one was needed to show off the opulence of the event, dangled above. Servers of all creeds darted to and fro, carrying platters of finger foods and alcohol. Mira snatched herself a glass.
“Mira,” Jinu said, noticing her first. He held out a hand to her as if she needed a proper introduction. “Fellas, you remember Mira, right? She joined us briefly on our tour in Europe back in ‘22.”
Mira smiled and bared her teeth. “Nice to see you again.” She tilted her head toward Rumi. “I suppose this is your fiancée?”
“Rumi,” the woman beside Jinu said. The first thing that Mira noticed about her was the broad stature of her shoulders, the straight rigidness of her posture. Her hair was done up in an intricate plait – a dragon braid – and dyed a rich, orchid purple. When she bowed in greeting, the champagne trembled in her hand. Mira noticed this but bowed back.
The two of them straightened. Mira found herself raising her glass to her lips and drawing from it a long swig, fit more for a harder liquor. This was a dry, white champagne that thickened her tongue in the back of her throat. At least behind the semi-frosted glass, she could shrink the world around her just a little bit. Focus on something other than the way the men around them stared like ravenous wolves.
“Mira! It has been a while, hasn’t it? We were just talking about you and when you’d make a comeback,” Mystery interjected. His lip curled over his front teeth as he said it. Smug prick.
“We were just wondering how you were,” Jinu said. His was the same mediating tone of a politician. “Considering your, uh, recent ailments.” He ran his tongue over the point of his canine. Mira imagined ripping it out of his mouth and choking him with it.
Instead, she swirled the rest of her champagne in her glass. “Incredible how you’re the first man ever to have an asshole for a mouth. They’ll kick you out if you keep spewing bullshit all over the place.”
Someone snorted. Six heads turned to face Rumi, who covered her mouth delicately with one hand. Her eyes practically bulged from their sockets. “Sorry, sorry! That just caught me off guard a little.”
Jinu’s eyelid spasmed. “You should be careful, Mira. Someone might see you drinking and get the wrong idea.”
Something hot prickled across her chest. A rash of tension, an unpleasant tightening in her core. Mira tilted back her head and threw back the rest of the drink. It eased the ache of her ribs and made it possible to breathe again. “I hope they do.”
Silence followed. Mira took it as an opportunity to re-familiarize herself with the Saja Boys. Their podcast and usernames stemmed from a distasteful gimmick. Each of them, like Mira, had gained notoriety on social media before venturing into the real world of political debates. Mira fancied herself a feminist. She was progressive, left-leaning. Jinu, Romance, Mystery, Baby, and Abby represented different spectrums of the ‘manosphere.’ For all his flaws, Jinu was the easiest of them to swallow. A pretty face with a lean frame to match, he was solid in both stature and ideology.
As for the others, they got their names from their social media handles. Each one a play on a different masculine caricature. This was it, their gimmick. It’s what their podcast, the Saja Boys, was all about. Men’s rights, the ‘sickness’ of feminism, the repulsive progression of South Korean politics. Of global politics, really.
“I don’t get it. Who cares if she drinks?” Abby said. Maybe he meant for it to be a whisper. His lips ghosted over the outer shell of Baby’s ear, who yelped and slapped a hand to it. Abby flinched back. “The hell?”
Romance dragged a hand over his face. “It’s because she–”
“As much as we all love each other, I actually came for Rumi,” Mira said and nodded toward her.
Rumi stilled then. She finished her drink and passed it to a nearby server, who whisked it away and disappeared into the crowd like they’d never been there at all. A ghost of capitalism and wealth. “Me?” She choked.
Mira smiled around the curve of her glass, which had been topped off by the same server. “I’m pretty good at reading people. I’m kind of an expert at it, actually, and it just reeks of pretentiousness over here. So I thought…”
Her gaze slid over to the empty space in the center of the room. There were a few couples there already, most of them older but some young, who swayed lazily together. Their limbs were loose with alcohol, as were their lips. They laughed and gossiped and smacked each other’s arms, saying different iterations of you can’t say things like that here! and I’m so proud of you! and I can’t drink anymore! Everything in here in spinning already!
A cello player stood in the center of the dais with his instrument and played. Mira assumed it was used for speeches more often than music. She noticed the scratches on the otherwise polished hardwood where a podium had been moved to make room for the cello.
“Want to get out of here?” Mira asked.
Rumi flicked her gaze to Jinu’s, her eyebrows raised skeptically. Jinu clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. Then he nodded at her. As if she were his ward, and he her master, and she’d been asking for permission – or looking for an out that he didn’t give. Either way, she smiled at Mira politely and held out a hand, which Mira took gently.
“Of course,” Rumi breathed.
Their hands were clasped together as Mira guided her to the impromptu dance floor. Now without distraction, she noticed Rumi’s black cocktail dress with the high halter neckline. The hemline was tiered. It gave the skirt of her dress an elegant sway. The waist was cinched and drew Mira’s eye to the gentle curve of her body. She followed the line of it with her eyes, from Rumi’s slender legs to the swanlike grace of her neck. Upon her ears, long chandelier earrings dangled. They were composed of diamonds and gold.
Mira dropped her hand from Rumi’s and placed it on the small of her back, guiding her closer. Rumi’s breath hitched. They were so close now Mira could taste the champagne on her breath. Her body was tense underneath Mira’s palm. An inhale, pause, an exhale. First through the nose, then the mouth. Rumi straightened her posture again. Her hands rested on Mira’s shoulders.
They twirled, slowly, around the others. The music was a lethargic, gentle melody. It was the music of social intimacy and slow, formal dancing. Every flicker of breath, every graze of skin, every rotation transformed into the press of their bodies. Soon enough, Mira could feel the rise and fall of Rumi’s chest as she breathed. Her skin prickled with goosebumps.
There was something in the wide, awe-stricken roundness of Rumi’s eyes. All of her was soft like that, all filed edges with tapered curves. When Mira arched an eyebrow, catching Rumi’s gaze with her own, she faltered and stumbled over her stilettos.
“I don’t – I’m not a drinker, usually,” she said, as if that explained anything. As if it explained everything.
“You know, I’d totally ask why you picked up the habit, but I think I can guess.” She nodded back to Rumi’s fiancé and his friends.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Well, I was under the impression we were dancing together but now I’m second guessing myself.”
Rumi’s eyes rolled. “What are you doing here with me? If you think you can get Jinu to falter by buttering me up—”
“Buttering you up?” Mira snorted. No one who knew her would ever accuse her of buttering anyone up. She might be good at dissecting political takes or keeping up with the frenzied flow of a debate but she was not good at navigating social conversations with any sort of softness. Hers was a sharpened tongue, quick in wit but also quick to anger. “Don’t tell me you’re flustered enough to think that!”
“No! No way, I’m just–” Rumi’s ankle rolled. She fell face first into Mira, her forehead against Mira’s collarbones. Mira caught her before both of them had a chance to topple over. “Sorry! Fuck!”
“Rumi! Are you okay?”
Rumi pushed Mira back. She stumbled, startled. “Don’t. Just – stop pretending to care about me. It’s giving me a headache.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “You can’t just – god, you can’t just storm over and ask me to dance and not seriously expect me to question your intentions a little bit.”
“It just seemed like you needed an escape. I know how it feels when you want an out and there’s no one there to give you one.”
Rumi’s gaze dropped to her hands. Fingers caressed the rough surface of her engagement diamond, a fat jewel that screamed high status. She stepped back, putting distance between herself and Mira. “It was nice meeting you but I should be getting back to Jinu.”
A thousand replies danced across Mira’s tongue. She bit the tip of it and smothered all of them.
Rumi turned stiffly and made her way back to Jinu, who welcomed her back by opening his arm to her. She tucked herself into his side and he snaked his hold around her waist, hand clutching tightly at her hip. He shot Mira one last look before he navigated himself and Rumi deeper into the crowd.
The rest of the party passed by relatively uneventfully. There were announcements, speeches she didn’t really care for. Some of the political commentators received recognition for their work in making social changes or lobbying for certain bills. While the speakers stood on the stage, convinced they had the entire room captivated, Mira found herself glancing at Jinu and Rumi one last time.
Jinu had his fingers on Rumi’s wrist.
Mira was twenty-years-old when her parents told her they would no longer associate themselves with her. She was too rowdy, too radical. A stubborn, unrelenting stain on the family line that had been allowed to linger far too long. Dropping out of med school was inexcusable to them as she had known it would be.
They spared her enough won to last her a year. In hindsight, Mira supposed that was the one mercy they ever allowed themselves to give her. She used it to rent herself an apartment on the outskirts of Seoul.
Her childhood home had been a near endless string of open spaces and corridors and bedrooms far too big for the people that occupied them. It still hadn’t been big enough to escape the oppressive air her parents exuded, and which weighed heavily upon Mira’s shoulders. The new apartment was a studio: there was a small living area with a curved wall made of windowpanes, looking over the cityscape. At the end of the living area was a nook, where a full sized bed and a night stand had been placed. A bamboo divider obscured them from outside view. Adjacent to it was the kitchen and, to the right of that, a small dead-end hall of her washer and dryer. She hardly had the space to pace or breathe or think, and yet she wondered how she might fill the space.
Mira was never one with much use for sentimentality. She didn’t have any favorite childhood items and the apartment had come fully furnished. Most nights, she sank into the couch and doomscrolled through YouTube shorts in a lonely stupor. The space never really felt like hers. Had anything ever been?
Something needed to change. The won dwindled, her body itched with restlessness. If only Mira had some way of proving her worth. How her parents would gawk, knowing they’d cut her off just short of her successful debut into society.
Those thoughts swirled heavily in her head and in her wine glass when she hit ‘buy’ on her first camera.
The second time Mira saw Rumi, it was on a sleepy street corner. There was a bite to the air that chaffed at Mira’s knuckles, her hands painfully bare and helpless to the battering of the wind. The lines in the palms of her hands were stained red from the fresh dye in her hair, a deep cherry color. She was glad when she ducked into the smoking booth, a haven from the elements. The musty tang of nicotine and the electronic vapors of e-cigarettes tasted far more hospitable than the crisp air outside.
The booth was compact, with little more than benches situated near the long, clear windowpanes. Ashtrays were filled with ash and sand near the doorway. The only sound was the soft whir of air purifiers and the flick of Mira’s lighter. As she lit her cigarette, she brushed her thumb over the guff indention of a sakura flower engraved into the plastic. She’d done it with a pocket knife a few months ago when she’d been drunk and bored.
Mira sat on one of the benches, her cigarette balanced between two fingers. Mira leaned her head against the window pane and glanced outside. People shielded each other from the wind’s lashing. Some brushed their hair away from their mouths and eyes. Others shivered and laughed. One woman, with orchid colored hair plaited tightly at the base of her scalp, argued with someone on the phone. Her free hand waved to and fro in the air, long nails curled like claws. When she turned her head, Mira noted the low, gentle slope of her nose and eyelashes so long she could almost make out the distinct shape of each strand from several feet away. Mira would recognize her anywhere.
Rumi’s shoulders shrank away from her ears. Her neck arched, the low bow of her head submissive despite the fact that whomever was on the other end of the phone call couldn’t see her spiritual surrender. The call ended shortly after that. Rumi stepped up to a crosswalk and pressed the button on the nearby light.
Mira snuffed out the cherry of her cigarette before she stepped back out into the evening air. The sun was halfway hidden by the nearby skyscrapers, which cast long shadows over the streets and made everything that much colder. Mira regretted wearing only her creaky leather jacket and not something slightly heavier.
“Rumi?” Mira called. She sidled up to Rumi just as the walk signal appeared on the streetlight. Rumi flinched at the sound of her name. Mira bowed politely in greeting. She heard Rumi suck in a sharp breath between her teeth before she stiffly returned the gesture.
“Annyeonghaseyo,” Rumi said as they both straightened again. She stepped out into the crosswalk, and Mira fell into step just slightly behind her. One of Rumi’s hands rubbed at her sternum as if to quiet the wild thumping of her heart. “You startled me. I was, uh, just walking to clear my head. If you wanted to join me, I mean.”
“I can’t imagine a better way to spend my evening,” Mira said, a playful lilt to her voice.
The city was oddly quiet on the other side of the street. Only a few people milled about, some talking into their phones or to their companions. Others ground their jaws in the silence. A teenager stomped out of a nearby shop, a flock of her friends stumbling after her. Her hair had been cut into a bob. She was crying on the phone appa, appa, I asked her only to take off a few inches!
At the mention of hair, Rumi swept her braid over her shoulder and toyed with the soft tuft at the end. “I’m getting married in two months,” she said. Her teeth worried at her lower lip. They slotted perfectly into an indent of dry skin, like she’d been doing that repeatedly against the squalls throughout the day. Mira bumped her shoulder against Rumi’s. The soft padding of Rumi’s white, down puffer jacket seemed welcoming enough.
Rumi’s heels clunked heavy against the pavement beneath their feet, the platform soles adding to her height so that it was almost level with Mira’s. Her ankle boots were toffee colored with shearling to keep in the warmth. They had hook-and-loop straps, the buttons of which gave off a pearlescent luster as they passed by the streetlights.
Mira’s leather jacket creaked and still carried the subtle scent of cigarettes. “And when you think about your wedding, you feel…?”
“Soooo excited!” Rumi warbled like a sad, caged little bird. “But also really, really anxious. I still have no idea what I’m doing with my hair, and the venue is bigger than I wanted. I don’t have anyone to invite.”
“No friends? Family?”
“I mean, there’s my godmother. But that’s hardly enough to fill so much space. It’s just – it’s so big.”
Mira felt her lips twitch. It was hard to deny herself a golden opportunity to make a clever and totally original innuendo in that moment. She pinched the inside of her wrist to remind herself that she was in polite company. Rumi looked like the sort of woman who would go red at the mere mention of such dirty thoughts, despite her long-term relationship.
Rumi, however, was already narrowing her eyes at Mira. “Shut up!” She squawked. “I’m being serious and vulnerable right now!”
The tip of Mira’s tongue poked out between her lips, her teeth grazing the top of it in a smug but coy gesture. “Rumi… they say it’s not the size of the venue that counts. It’s how you use it.”
“Tell that to Jinu. I mean that in both ways.”
And when they laughed, it wasn’t musical or like bellchimes or soft, chattering windchimes. Rumi put her hand on her abdomen and slouched over, her braid swinging in front of her. Laughter bubbled and popped from her throat, boisterous and genuine. It was loud, unrelenting; she took up space on that street, something Mira didn’t even feel comfortable enough to do in her own shoebox apartment. A man across the street glowered at them.
That’s when Mira realized she was laughing too, her head tilted slightly back, one hand steadying her with its gentle grasp on Rumi’s shoulder.
They walked until they stumbled upon a convenience store. While they grabbed cups of noodles and heated them in the microwave, Rumi told Mira about the venue, which Jinu and her godmother, Celine, convinced her was perfect for a winter wedding. She wanted a spring wedding, she’d said, but she looked forward to being a bride either way. They both came from respectable family backgrounds. He’d bring honor to the Kang family name. And, of course, Rumi loved Jinu – she emphasized that at least four times throughout the conversation. He was good to her.
Mira kept her reservations tucked beneath her sleeve. Instead, she smiled and told Rumi she would be the most beautiful winter bride in all of Seoul. When Rumi smiled then, it was more a reflexive twitch at the corner of the mouth.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” Rumi said at least. They’d hunkered down at one of the indoor seating arrangements for the time being, their noodles warm in the palm of their hands, chopsticks wielded in the other.
“For what?” Mira asked after she swallowed a mouthful.
“Jinu’s behavior at the party…it was inappropriate. I want you to know that – I mean, if you’re struggling at all – ugh, I’m no good at this.” Rumi ran a hand over her face. “What I mean is,” her tongue ran nervously over her front teeth, “if you need anyone to talk to, judgement free, you can always talk to me. I’m –”
Rumi had her phone out, open to her contacts. She was going to send it to Mira, should she have wanted it. But then her phone screen lit up with a call. Mira caught a glimpse of the caller ID: Jinu.
“Shit,” Rumi cursed. With a numb, trembling finger, she hit the answer button and pressed the phone to her ear. “I should go. See you, Mira.”
She pressed a parting kiss to Mira’s cheek, a fleeting graze of tissue paper lips, as if her affection were something to be given away so freely. When she left, her fingertips grazed against the collar of Mira’s jacket longer than necessary before finally relinquishing her to the night.
In those first few months after Mira’s channel went live, there was a constant tug-of-war within her mind. She screamed into the oversaturated void that was online political commentary. Scarce were statistics in terms of views, likes, and comments. If she’d been smarter, she would have closed her laptop one final time and peeled her ass off the cotton of her couch and gotten a real job. Instead, she gorged herself on instant noodles so she could afford to pay the bills with her parents’ won just a little longer. She consoled herself and thought this will be the last time, I swear. I won’t do it again after this. I just need more time, that’s all, and then I’ll quit and at least I can say that I tried.
That’s when she discovered him – Hyun Jinu.
Even in his videos, she could taste the brand of his pretentiousness on her tongue. The thick scent of hairspray that clung to his hair, the cologne that tried too hard to seem masculine, with a name like smoldering dragon or something equally ridiculous. The way he clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth in the lull between words or sneered at his guests, amused at any sign of floundering, his lip curled over his pronounced canines.
When she finally took matters into her own hands, it was a Friday – Saturday? – evening. The moon skulked across the horizon lazily while moonlight stretched across the floor like cat paws. Mira’s brain was frazzled with sleep deprivation. Her body was flushed, her heart pounded like the flurried patter of hummingbird wings. On the best nights, she had a bite to her voice, a growling undertone that made even her most relaxed statements sometimes sound belligerent. On these nights, her aggression was acute. Sharp. Like the canines Jinu seemed to love baring so much when he spoke.
She switched from editing a video on her laptop to watching one of Jinu’s on her TV. It was a debate he’d hosted on his podcast: The Saja Boys. His friends – Abby, Romance, Mystery, and Baby – were all cohosts. The guest speaker was a young woman named Park Sook. She was there to educate Jinu and the other Saja Boys on the 4B Movement.
“It’s typical feminist propaganda,” Jinu said at one point. His hands were folded delicately in front of him as he spoke into his microphone. Sook furrowed her brows. “And, frankly, an attack on traditional family structures. Do you know that because of things like the 4B Movement, South Korea is a ‘super-aged’ society?”
And on he went, more than happy to slap the blame onto women’s shoulders. Something inside her chest squeezed furiously like a fist. No, no – she couldn’t sit back and say nothing while this man amassed hundreds, thousands, millions of views.
Mira rubbed furiously at her nose and face, cleaning herself up for the camera, and hit record. When she woke the next morning, hazy from a mere two hours of sleep, she looked around to find what roused her. Her phone dinged. Then it dinged again. And again, and another time after that, and then another. Mira groaned despite the ache in her temples and thought, fuckin’ hell, what is all this commotion –?
Her video had gone viral.
The third time Mira saw Rumi, it was a week shy of her wedding. Maybe Rumi was desperate for a friend. Maybe Mira was too. Because when Rumi found Mira’s instagram a week after their last meeting, she followed her. And Mira followed her back. They played tag with each other in the comments, had a healthy (perhaps confusing to Mira’s and Jinu’s respective fans) back-and-forth that felt playful and far friendlier than two meetings worth of interactions warranted. Eventually, they graduated from sending comments and spamming likes to actual conversations in DM.
Mira enjoyed listening to Rumi’s meandering voice notes over morning tea. Rumi seemed to love when Mira sent her random selfies. She snapped a picture when she accidentally kicked over one of her plants, the dirt still in a mound on the laminate. Is it doomed to die now? She’d asked. Repot it immediately, what are you doing??? came Rumi’s response.
Kang_Rumi: I know this is random but I’m having pre-wedding jitters. Would it be inappropriate if I asked you to go out with me tonight? It’d be my treat. I just need to get out of this house and breathe.
miras-at-it-again: wow what would your husband think
Kang_Rumi: Fiance*! Not married yet! That’s next week 🙂
miras-at-it-again: that means its not too late yet
Kang_Rumi: harhar
Kang_Rumi: I consulted my wallet and it said it’s way too late so shut up and go out with me tonight <33
miras-at-it-again: okay miss gilded cage. You picked your poison.
miras-at-it-again: so actually there is something i’d love to do if youre down… karaoke bar?
Kang_Rumi: I talked it out with Jinu. I’ll be there!
Mira slipped an oversized bomber jacket over her hoodie. This late into winter, even she had to kiss the leather jackets goodbye for now. She’d scuffed her sneakers on the way to the karaoke bar in the hopes that Rumi wouldn’t notice she’d bought them specifically for this meet up.
The karaoke bar they’d agreed upon wasn’t too far from the beating heart of the city center. A small staircase led up to the front door, painted red to capture the attention of passerbys in the dark. A bear and rabbit with microphones were painted onto the facade of the building.
Mira stepped inside and brought her hands to her lips, blowing warm air into her cupped palms. She pulled her phone out of back pocket to let Rumi know that she’d arrived –
“Oh!” Someone collided into Mira’s back. She spun sharply on her heels, ready to apologize and whisk herself into the corner of the room like a mouse, when she realized it was Rumi, biting back a snatch of laughter. “Why are you standing in the doorway?”
Mira cleared her throat. She stepped back, giving Rumi enough space to step inside. “I was told I had to answer three riddles for us to be granted access. Luckily, I just solved the last one when you arrived.” Somehow it was easier to joke about something stupid than to simply say I felt anxious and wanted someone to lean on when I crossed the threshold.
They walked up to the counter and a bored looking teen with an eyebrow piercing and a wolfcut told them they’d have to pay hourly to rent a private room. Rumi fished out a card and inserted it into the card reader.
The private room they rented, despite the price, was relatively narrow, longer than it was wide. On each side and at the very back of the room was a boneless couch arranged into a ‘u’ shape. In the center was a wooden coffee table with a menu propped up on the center. Coasters were provided, of course, so as to not tarnish the wood. At the forefront of the room was a screen that would display the song options and the lyrics. Adjacent to it, hanging in the corner, was a speaker. The lighting was dim and shifted slowly between hues, a kaleidoscope of gradients. Mira supposed there was a sort of charm to it. Cozy but not overly lavish. She sunk into the couch and ordered for them both a glass of Somaek.
“Is it okay for you to drink?” Rumi asked. She unzipped her puffer jacket to reveal a cropped turtleneck underneath. It looked thick, like it was made of wool, dyed a fine lavender. Mira eyed her and wondered how she managed to stay so poised in something that probably felt suffocatingly hot.
Mira flicked her fingers dismissively and said, “I’m glad you invited me out. I’m surprised Jinu was okay with you hanging out with me like this.”
“Let me? Look, I know that you two have a complicated history. I admit that I don’t, uh, always agree with everything that he says on his podcast. But you don’t know him, not really. And nothing on there is indicative of the kind of relationship that we have, he doesn’t –”
“Doesn’t it get exhausting, Rumi? Defending him all the time?” Mira shifted in her seat to face Rumi, so that they could better see each other’s faces. Their knees brushed. Rumi sucked her lower lip between her teeth again, which found their way back into that little groove of dry skin and aged teethmarks. The one she’d had for weeks now.
“I’m glad we’re friends, Mira. But I know you think less of me for being with him. I’m not a child who needs his say on what I can do or wear or what to think.”
“And yet,” Mira steeled herself, “the first time I saw you, at that party, it looked like that’s exactly what you were doing.”
Rumi’s body stiffened. “He has preferences. That’s not – there’s nothing wrong with preferences. He can’t…he doesn’t force me to…”
Mira brought her fingers to her temples and massaged them with her fingers and her thumb. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just exhausted. My nerves are all over the place.” She let her hand slip a little, so that she was looking at Rumi through the cracks between her fingers. “Let’s start over and pretend like we’re actually here to sing.”
Rumi’s body was turned fully toward Mira’s. She sighed and clicked her tongue, then reached forward to gently take Mira’s hands into her own, so that her face was no longer hidden behind them. “If we’re pretending to sing, what are we actually here for?”
Mira offered a lopsided smile in reply. “To get absolutely fucked up and then sing.”
This time, when Rumi bit her lip, there was a grin hidden beneath the gesture, a little glimmer of mirth in her eyes. “See, in that scenario, we don’t have to pretend because singing drunk is still, you know, singing.”
They drank. Mira ordered them another round. And another, and another, and another until the edges of the world were softened by the blur in her gaze. Whenever she turned her head or moved her body, she felt an animated sort of wobbliness that made her laugh. Rumi laughed, too, even though she didn’t really seem to know what they were laughing about.
“At first, when you asked for this, I almost thought you were teasing me again,” Rumi said suddenly. Her finger traced the rim of the glass – a never ending, circular loop – her gaze trained on the sliver of drink still inside.
Mira cocked her head. “Do you and karaoke have a complicated past I should know about?”
Rumi snorted. Then her eyes grew heavy, her lids drooped. Dark circles became evident beneath them. “It’s…it’s stupid. My mom was in a popular band a couple of decades ago. The Sunlights Sisters.” She waited to see if the name registered as familiar to Mira. The slow spread of shocked revelation must have made it obvious that it was because Rumi continued. “My godmother was in the band, too. It’s how they became so close, actually. Anyways, it’s – you know, being the heiress to an inheritance like that. To a history that’s known about by millions… I just expect people to know and to torment me for it.”
“Your mom is Mi-yeong Ryu?”
“She is.”
It was the first time either of them had mentioned a family of any kind, aside from Rumi’s offhanded remarks about her godmother’s attendance and involvement in her wedding. She’d known that Rumi must not have family, or at least wasn’t close with them, since she mentioned the size of her venue and the lack of people in her life to fill it with. To hear it confirmed so directly though… Her chest throbbed.
“I know what that’s like.” Mira paused. “Not having parents, I mean. My dad is a politician for the conservative party. I’m sure you can see why that relationship never worked out.”
“That sounds exhausting. Mira, I’m so sorry. That’s, like, so stupid of them. You’re a smart, successful woman with a great career ahead of her! You’re the best! How could they not see that?”
They were definitely way too drunk to be having this conversation. Mira swallowed the last mouthful of her drink. The carbonation danced across her tongue. “Well, Jinu is stupid for coercing you into getting a venue bigger than his dick!!!”
“YEAH!” Rumi cheered, jumping to her feet and pumping her fist into the air. “It’s way bigger than his dick, but smaller than his fucking ego!!”
“That’s the spirit, Rumi! This is your fucking life, so live it up girl!”
Rumi laughed again. Her head tilted back, and she almost fell back with it, until Mira jumped up and looped an arm around her neck. They laughed together until a stitch formed in their sides and they wheezed for air.
“You know,” Mira said and pressed her forehead against Rumi, “your mother would have loved you.”
Rumi stared, unblinking, into the rich brown of Mira’s eyes. The smell of alcohol fanned over Mira’s face with Rumi’s every breath. They stayed like that for a while, just to breathe and to look. Eventually, Rumi stepped back. “I think this is the part where we sing,” she said.
The first time they kissed was three months after Rumi’s wedding. The snow drifts were replaced by drizzles of rain. Flower buds unfurled to reveal pink-and-white blossoms. The breeze carried with it a sweet, natural perfume, rich with petrichor and flowers and cut grass. Mira opened her windows to air out the apartment. She hadn’t moved out of the studio yet; there wasn’t really a need to, with no one to invite over and no partner to worry about sharing the space with. She considered adopting a cat but plants were easier to care for because she cared significantly less when they died. She placed four pots across each of her windowsills so her succulents – which had survived the winter – could get some sunlight.
Earlier that week, she revisited the topic that made her famous in the first place. She did a deep dive into the 4B movement, including its history, meaning, and the pushback it received. She also talked about its success and how it inspired other, smaller movements in other countries. Yesterday, the Saja Boys released a new segment to their podcast. It was a response to her video, critiquing the points she made, correcting her facts with misinformation or half-baked truths, and dismissed her as if everything she said had been pointless conjecture. Not the real, lived experience of women across South Korea.
Rumi had grown distant shortly after the wedding. She’d been busy on her honeymoon, after all. They’d gone somewhere in Europe. Greece, she thought, based on the pictures plastered on Rumi’s instagram. They had brief conversations, but they were brief. Mira would reach out with surface level texts, like good morning or goodnight or how are you? And Rumi would send a minimal response. Sometimes, if Mira was lucky, she would get a voice note. She’d heard birdsong and voices blurred into the background as Rumi explained something she’d seen or heard or some inconvenience she’d just gone through. But those moments were fleeting, gone in a blink.
When the honeymoon ended, Mira thought things would regain some semblance of normalcy. Their texts grew in frequency again, for a short time. And then Rumi withdrew again. Mira wondered if they’d gotten too close, too soon. Loneliness did that to you, she supposed. The first hit of affection and you were addicted.
Hyun_Rumi is calling…
Mira stared at the instagram notification that took over her screen. Since the Saja Boys released their podcast, she’d gotten all sorts of crazy DM requests and comments. She’d almost declined before she realized who it was.
“Rumi?” Mira said. She put the call on speaker mode so she could set her phone onto the coffee table and spray her succulents with water. Before Rumi spoke, Mira heard it. A sniffle followed by a garbled breath and a choked sob. “Rumi, what the hell happened?!”
It came out with more bite than Mira intended. Rumi cried harder until she gagged on her upset. The wretched sound made Mira’s stomach churn as if she were the one on the verge of throwing up.
“I’m so sorry! Nothing’s happened, I just…fuck!” Something clanged on the other end. Almost like Rumi kicked something or punched it. “Can you please just — I don’t know, can you meet me at the cherry blossoms? Please? I promise that it’s important, I…”
“Rumi, Rumi, breathe. Breathe, okay? I’ll be there.”
And so an hour later, Mira arrived at the park with the cherry blossom trees. Rumi waited for her on a nearby bench. A few flowers were caught in a stray breeze and one tangled itself in Rumi’s hair, which was loose today. When she saw Mira, she gestured for her to take a seat.
“I think I fucked it all up, Mira.”
“Your marriage with Jinu? What happened? Are you okay?”
Rumi shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut.
Mira frowned. “Hey…” She whispered, putting a hand on top of Rumi’s, which wrung together anxiously in her lap. The touch reawakened Rumi, it seemed, because her golden gaze snapped toward Mira.
“I…” She shook her head. “Mira, it’s all so fucked up. I don’t even know if I like men.”
“Rumi, what the hell are you talking about? I thought you –”
Rumi shifted until their bodies were facing each other. She leaned forward and let her lips brush against Mira’s. It was a ghost of a kiss, really, barely a graze of the lips. Mira shuddered despite herself. The taste of salt hit her tongue.
“Oh god…” Rumi sobbed. “What am I going to do?”