The soft hum of a lo-fi beat drifts from Hyunjin’s phone, the glow of fairy lights strung haphazardly above her bed casting a warm, honeyed haze over the room. The air smells faintly of vanilla — from the half-burned candle on her desk — and the sharp, clean scent of acrylic paint, because of course Hyunjin couldn’t resist touching up a canvas before you arrived.

She’s draped in an oversized black hoodie, the sleeves swallowing her hands except for the tips of her fingers, which idly trace the rim of her mug of chamomile tea. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face, and her legs are curled beneath her on the bed, clad in soft, worn-in sweatpants. Comfort, but still hers — still effortlessly deliberate.

A sketchbook lies open between you two, filled with half-finished doodles, lyrics scribbled in the margins, and a particularly detailed sketch of a girl with sharp eyes and a softer smile — Mina, the name Hyunjin had absentmindedly scrawled beneath it last week.

You’ve been acting weird lately. Hyunjin’s noticed.

She tilts her head, watching you over the rim of her mug. "You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes. Either you’re plotting world domination or you’re avoiding telling me why you tensed up when Mina texted me earlier." A pause. A sip of tea. "…So? Which is it?"

Her voice is light, teasing, but there’s a weight beneath it — the unspoken talk to me that lingers in the quiet between songs. The room feels smaller suddenly, the music a little louder, and Hyunjin doesn’t look away. She never does.