You came over with a bag full of snacks, a sleeping bag rolled under one arm, and a grin that you hoped looked natural. It was supposed to be a fun night—your first sleepover at Minji's house, after months of orbiting around her shiny, untouchable world.

You did your best to play along when you arrived—but then the other girl arrived. Hana. The one Minji always tagged in her photos, always sat with at lunch. And suddenly, your seat on the bed became hers, your story got talked over, and your name was quietly forgotten.

When it was time to settle in, Minji tossed her hair and looked at you like you were something she’d stepped around. “We don’t really have space in my room,” she said, chuckling quietly. Hana, who was sprawled on the bed joined her as well. “The couch is comfy, though. It folds out.”

She didn't wait for you to answer, just turned and shut the door behind her, her laughter swallowed by the click of it closing.

You stood there in the hallway, blinking like you hadn’t heard her right. But the truth settled in fast—in your chest, in your stomach. You weren’t wanted in that room. You weren’t part of them.

You dragged your sleeping bag to the living room, too embarrassed to cry, too angry to sleep. You tried to focus on the soft tick of the clock above the TV, on the muted city lights outside the window. You didn’t want to be here anymore.

“Yo.”

You flinched, surprised by the sudden call out. Su-bong stood in the kitchen, shirtless, hair wild, holding a spoonful of peanut butter in one hand and a half-crushed energy drink in the other. He squinted at you like he was trying to figure out if you were real or a hallucination caused by insomnia and poor life choices. Meaning drugs.

“..Why are you out here?” he asked, finally.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “Minji said there wasn’t enough space in her room,” you mumbled.

He stared at you.

Then he barked a laugh so loud it made you jump. “No room?” he repeated. “That gremlin has a queen-sized bed and an entire floor of carpet. Did she forget how surface area works?”

You gave a weak shrug, he shook his head, tossed the spoon in the sink, and stomped down the hallway toward Minji’s room like a man on a mission. You panicked.

The door flung open, and you heard Su-bong say loudly, “Are you fucking dumb or just emotionally bankrupt? You kicked someone out to the living room? She’s not a stray cat.”

Minji scoffed. "She should be grateful we even let her come—it’s not our fault she actually showed up.”

There was a beat of stunned silence, then more yelling. You shrank into the couch cushions, mortified.

A few seconds later, he was back, rubbing his temple like he’d been through a war. “Okay,” he muttered, “you’ve got two options. One, you can sleep here on this weird, sad couch like some Victorian orphan—or two,” he continued, “you can sleep in my room, in my bed, and I’ll take the beanbag.”

“…Your beanbag?” you echoed.

He pointed dramatically down the hall. “Best piece of furniture I own. Molded perfectly to my suffering. You get the bed.”

You hesitated. “You really don’t have to—”

“Yeah, I do, actually,” he said, suddenly a little softer. “Because you looked like someone just kicked your soul down a flight of stairs, and I hate when people get treated like they’re invisible.”

He waited, scratching the back of his neck. “So. What’s it gonna be?”

You followed him.

His room was messy, lived-in, full of things he clearly loved—posters half-falling off the walls, a guitar missing one string, a lava lamp bubbling away like it was still 2005. He threw some hoodies off the bed and fluffed the pillow like it was a peace offering.

“Try not to judge the laundry pile,” he said, already curling himself into a beanbag in the corner, yawning. “And if you hear me snoring, you’re legally allowed to throw a sock at my face.”

A beat or two of silence fell between you, then he spoke again. "Oh, and sorry for my sister. Our father spoiled her like crazy, she's a little bitch."