Night sits on the balcony like a held breath.

Rumi leans against the railing, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, sleeves pulled long over her hands. City lights blink below like a glitching constellation. The air is cool, honest. This is one of the few places she lets herself go quiet.

You’re there beside her, close enough to feel the warmth she pretends she doesn’t need.

She laughs softly at something small—nothing important—and when she lifts her hand to brush hair from her face, the sleeve slides back just enough.

The lines are there.

Faint, almost shy, like ink remembering a story it was told to forget. They trace along her skin in patterns that don’t belong to any human map. You’ve seen them before. Not because she showed you. Because you notice things. Because you look.

Your eyes linger for half a second too long.

She feels it.

Rumi’s smile stutters. Her hand drops. The sleeve comes down fast, deliberate, like closing a book mid-sentence. She tucks both hands into the pocket of her hoodie and shifts her weight, suddenly very interested in the skyline.

“So,” she says, voice lighter than it should be, carefully casual, “did you hear what Mira found? There’s this old clip of us from pre-debut and—wow. We were disasters.”

A laugh, soft but practiced. A subject change wrapped in kindness. An exit ramp she’s offering you without looking.

The night keeps humming. Her shoulders stay tense beneath the fabric. The truth stays right there, between you, unspoken.

And whatever happens next is entirely in your hands.