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justtluvrr · 22 days ago

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jail.

Painkiller by Ruel – "Please, never leave me 'cause I'm barely holdin' on. You give me a reason to keep on breathin', 'cause you're my painkiller when my brain gets bitter, you keep me close when I've been miserable. And it takes forever to let my brain get better, you keep me close" (Megan Skiendel x Reader)

Synopsis: Megan never thought a love story could start with a window. Megan also didn’t think that a love story could end with it either.

—☆

Megan Skiendel wasn’t looking for a miracle that afternoon— she just wanted the snow to stop sticking to her lashes.

The snow that day fell soft and thick. A December hush that should have made everything feel cold.

Megan pressed her forehead to her bedroom window, breath fogging the glass. She should’ve been annoyed. She hated how her fingers went numb even inside thick gloves. Hated how her mother’s voice echoed up the stairs “Megan! Wear socks or you’ll catch your death!” every fifteen minutes.

But that day with her forehead pressed to the freezing glass, Megan didn’t hate winter.

Because you were there.

She didn’t know your name yet. All she knew was that you stood in the middle of your driveway, half-buried in a snowbank, arms wrapped around a cardboard box that looked twice your size. A hoodie swallowed you whole, sleeves too long for your hands. A knitted beanie sat crooked over your hair. Your breath turned to ghosts in the air.

And you were smiling. God— grinning, actually. Like the snow falling down your back was nothing. Like your teeth weren’t chattering behind that grin. Like winter had no right to touch you.

Megan pressed her fingertips to the cold pane, tracing the faint shape of your mouth with her nail. Her heart squeezed in a way it hadn’t for months, not since the rankings came out and the trainee list put her fifth. Good job, Megan. But not good enough.

Always good, never enough.

She didn’t know you, but she thought: There’s summer. Right there. In the snow. With a smile too big for winter to swallow.

She didn’t know she was staring until—

“Megan! Lunch!”

Her mother’s voice broke through her daydream. Megan pulled back, cheeks warm, heart doing a traitorous flip.

You were dragging a box toward the curb, coat hanging crooked off one shoulder, head tucked in a faded hoodie that barely hid your hair. When you looked up and caught her staring, you didn’t flinch.

Didn’t shy away.

You just raised your hand, wiggled your fingers. Like you’d known her for years. Like this snowstorm was just an excuse to stand here and smile back.

And for a second, just one stupid, too-warm second, Megan forgot it was cold.

Forgot she was hungry.

Forgot the mess of trainee rankings waiting on her laptop beside her.

Forgot everything except: Oh. Please, God. If You’re gonna hand me a miracle, let it be this one.

“Megan! Lunch’s ready— before it gets cold!”

She jolted back, heart slamming against her ribs like it was trying to get to you first.

“One second!” she shouted back, nose brushing the cold glass.

You were still there, wrestling the box through the snow, hood bobbing when you stumbled.

Megan bit back a grin, cheeks warm even as the window numbed her forehead.

Her mom’s voice snapped her back: "Lunch, now!"

Downstairs smelled like leftover hainanese chicken and warm rice. She sat across from her mother, phone buzzing on her knee with training updates she refused to open yet.

“Eat,” her mother said. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” Megan lied.

Her mother peered at her; the same sharp eyes Megan saw every time she looked in the mirror.

She chewed her rice too fast, half-listening to her mother hum under her breath.

Her mind was upstairs, pressed to a window, watching a smile she’d never seen before.

When she padded back to her room, steam still clinging to her hair, she went straight to the window.

For one stupid second, her stomach dropped— you were gone. The driveway was just a mess of slush and tire tracks.

Maybe you were a trick, she thought, palms flat against the glass. Maybe I made you up—

Then she saw your light.

The room right across from hers; new curtains, boxes stacked against the wall, your silhouette moving behind half-open blinds. You dropped a blanket on the floor, disappeared, came back with another box.

Megan’s mouth dropped open.

You live there.

Right there.

Right across. A window’s width apart.

She pressed her forehead to the glass again; it felt warmer this time.

Maybe this is it, she thought wildly. Maybe He finally heard me. If I asked for a sign — a stupid little sign — maybe this is it. Maybe this is my stupid movie moment.

She laughed, whispered a thank you under her breath, maybe God really did answer stupid prayers, like a girlfriend next door, like your windows perfectly lined up like fate had drawn them out on graph paper.

She watched you unpack. You kicked over a lamp and picked it up with a sheepish glance at the window. Megan squeaked, ducked so fast she smacked her head on the windowsill.

Smooth, Skiendel. Real smooth.

Her cheeks flamed. She dropped to the floor beside her bed, heartbeat rattling her ribs like a drum.

Stupid. Stupid. What now, genius? she thought, giggling into her sweater sleeve.

She peeked again. You were laughing. She couldn’t hear it, not yet, but she knew. She could see it in the scrunch of your nose, the way your eyes squinted shut.

Oh God, please let me die.

She needed an escape.

The laptop hummed open. The trainee rankings glared back— a cold reminder that the world outside her window wasn’t the only thing frozen.

Fifth place. Again. Good, but not good enough. Your technique is clean, Megan. But it’s too clean. Where’s the fire?

She slapped her palm over her face. Where’s the fire? She wanted to scream

It’s gone. I’m tired.

She clicked her music app. A playlist she made with a silly name started blasting bass through her headphones.

The floor creaked under her socks as she stood. She let the first beat hit her chest, boom. Then the second— boom-boom. Her shoulders rolled. Her knees bent. Her feet found the groove. The walls of her room blurred, only the window stayed clear. She danced like she needed the oxygen. Like she could sweat the rankings out of her skin.

A leap, a spin, her hair stuck to her lips. She didn’t care. She danced like the summer she’d seen in your smile.

When the music cut, when the last note rang out, she bent over, hands on her knees, lungs burning. A laugh slipped out of her. For the first time in days, it didn’t feel forced.

Then she looked up.

And there you were pressed to your window, cheeks pink, a piece of paper stuck to the glass.

You’re a great dancer! :)

She screamed.

“WHAT—” Megan’s knees buckled. She dropped right where she stood, face burning.

“Megan?!” Her mother’s voice from the hallway.

“I’m fine!” she wheezed, sinking to her knees on her floor. She slapped both hands over her face.

Through her fingers, she could still see you— giggling. She couldn’t hear it, but the way your shoulders shook made her wish the glass would disappear.

She scrambled on hands and knees, knocking over a water bottle, tossing pillows, yanking open drawers.

“Where’s my pen? Where’s my pen— Mom! Why is my room a landfill—”

She panicked, fingers raking through the mess on her desk, old homework, a cracked highlighter, receipts she forgot to throw out. Pen. Pen. Where’s my pen?

She could nail a freestyle but lose a pen every time she needed it most.

She found it wedged under her pillow. A lined notebook followed. She ripped a page out so violently it tore sideways.

Her handwriting looked like a toddler’s but she didn’t care.

She scribbled so fast the pen almost tore through:

So you’re treating me like Taylor Swift huh?

She pressed it to the glass, face redder than the sunset behind you, heart hammering.

Please don’t think I’m weird. Please laugh.

You read it— squinted, then snorted so hard you had to cover your mouth with your sleeve. Megan bit her lip to keep from squealing.

You snorted, she SAW you snort, then pulled your hoodie tighter, fiddled with your beanie, wrote something back.

You held up your note.

I think you’re better than Taylor Swift.

Megan slapped a hand over her face. Breathe, Skiendel, breathe.

She was about to write something— like what? ‘Marry me?’

Megan fell backward onto her floor, arms flung wide like she’d just been shot through the heart by a neon pink arrow.

She rolled onto her stomach, pressed her cheek to the floorboards, kicked her feet like a kid. God. I’m doomed. I’m doomed.

She was halfway through scribbling a comeback, something dumb, something cheesy— when her mother banged on her door.

“Megan! Take this to the new neighbors! We made too much— be nice.”

“NOW?!”

Her mother cracked the door open, plate in hand. “Now.”

Megan stared at the plate, rice cakes steaming under plastic wrap.

“...God,” she whispered to herself, yanking her hair into a ponytail. “Okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

She threw on a hoodie two sizes too big. It smelled like fabric softener and dance studio floor. She stared at her reflection. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide.

Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t trip. Don’t die.

She stood in front of your door five minutes later, her hair half-brushed, a plate of steaming rice cakes balanced in trembling hands.

The plate balanced in trembling hands. Her socked feet made no sound on your porch. She knocked once, then twice, soft, soft— before she could run away.

The door opened.

And there you were, but this time with no window between you.

Megan’s first thought when you open the door is Oh, you really do look like summer up close.

Your hoodie sleeves are bunched at your elbows now, your fingers fiddling with the hem like you can’t stand still. That grin is back, too, softer this time, but just as warm.

“Hi,” you say first— shy, but it slides into a chuckle when Megan nearly drops the plate.

“Hi—uh—” Megan catches the rice cakes just in time, clutches the plate like it’s a bomb. “I’m Megan. I live, um—”

You grinned. The same unstoppable grin that made her forget the cold the first time.

“I know,” you said. “Taylor Swift.”

She twists, nearly smacks herself with her ponytail. “There. Across. The window. We— we waved.”

You smile like you’re trying not to laugh outright. “I know. I was the one with the sign, remember?”

Megan wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole. “Right. Yes. You were.”

You lean your shoulder against the doorframe, eyes flitting down to the plate, then back to her face. “Are those for me?”

“Oh—! No! I mean yes—!” She shoves the plate at you, nearly ramming it into your hoodie.

“My mom made too much. She says welcome. And— uh— I— also say welcome.”

You take it gently, your fingers brushing hers for half a heartbeat— warm despite the snow crusted on your porch. Megan swears she feels it in her ribs.

You peer under the plastic wrap, then up at her again. “They look good.”

“They are! I mean — probably. I mean — I’ll shut up now.”

You laugh, a real, bright laugh. “You don’t have to shut up. I like your voice.”

And just like that, Megan Skiendel forgets how to breathe.

“I’m Y/n, by the the way”

From then on, it was the windows.

You, propped on your elbows at your sill, pen and paper always ready.

Her, tangled in fairy lights and half-finished homework, scribbling back.

Hey Meiyok— I heard you singing. You’re good at that too.

Stop spying on me!

Never :)

The first time Megan walked into practice after meeting you, Adela practically tackled her by the lockers.

“You’re glowing.”

Adela poked her cheek. “Who made you smile like that? Huh?”

Emily stuck her head out from the bathroom door, hair still damp from the trainee showers. “Bet she’s got a secret, huh?”

Megan ducked her head, trying to hide the way her ears turned red. “Shut up.”

But she was glowing— everyone saw it.

Even Niki made a joke when she landed a clean triple spin she’d been botching for weeks.

"Got yourself a lucky charm?" she’d said, half-teasing, half-proud.

Megan just laughed, breathless, chest bursting— because the truth was… yeah.

She did.

You were right there.

Every night.

Every morning.

Always at the window.

—☆

After training, after drills that leave Megan’s knees raw and her throat dry, she drags herself up the stairs, flips her light on, and there you are.

Perched at your own window, chin propped on your folded arms, smile pressed against the glass.

Sometimes you wave. Sometimes you hold up a scribbled note: “Tough day?” and Megan, mouth too tired to shape the truth, just nods.

You mime something— a soft flick of your wrist. She cracks her window open just in time for a tiny crumpled paper ball to arc through the cold air and land on her bed.

She unfolds it. Hang in there.

She always does.

God, you were so close.

So close she could almost touch you. But not close enough.

Sometimes she’d come home late, legs trembling from hours of footwork and vocal drills.

She’d flick on her bedroom lamp and there it would be; your note pressed to the glass.

“You did great today.”

Or:

“Don’t forget to eat, superstar.”

Once, when she’d bombed a test run of her new choreo, legs too slow, voice cracking mid-verse, she found you leaning halfway out your window instead of just holding a note.

You’d scrunched up a balled paper, lobbed it across.

It bounced off her window with a thud. She jumped.

She pulled it open so fast she nearly dropped the latch.

There you were, hoodie on, beanie poking out from under the hood. Cheeks flushed from the cold night air.

You flicked your wrist dramatically, like a magician, and held up a new sign:

“Open your stupid window. I’ve got snacks.”

Sometimes that’s all she needed.

You, dangling a plastic bag of convenience store ramen and those terrible neon crackers.

You, perched on your sill like the world’s laziest gargoyle.

You, voice low so you didn’t wake your aunt, telling her dumb jokes that made her laugh so hard she pressed her forehead to the glass.

Some nights she’d fall asleep with her window still cracked open, cold breeze mixing with your soft words, your laughter drifting across like a lullaby.

Training went on. So did your notes. Adela caught her grinning at nowhere too much and threw her towel at Megan’s head.

Of course Adela and Emily noticed.

She couldn’t stop the grin.

Didn’t even try.

Emily caught her first. “There she goes again,” she stage-whispered.

Adela leaned over her shoulder. “Who is it? You gonna tell us?”

Megan stuck out her tongue. “No.”

Adela gasped— dramatic, hand to heart. “Is it your neighbor?”

Megan’s jaw dropped. “How do you—”

Emily cackled. “We’ve seen you sprint out the gate after practice! Don’t even lie.”

“Oh my God, Skiendel, you’ve got it bad.”

Emily chimed in, “So when are you gonna stop writing love letters through windows and actually ask them out?”

Megan nearly died on the spot.

Megan buried her face in her hands. “I hate you both.”

But she didn’t. Not really.

Because when the day was over, when her throat burned from singing and her muscles ached from dancing— she still had you.

You get her through all of it.

The 5 a.m. wake-ups, the 1 a.m. choreography changes, the days she forgets she’s sixteen because her bones ache like she’s fifty.

When she stumbles into her room, half-dead, your light is on.

Your silhouette glows warm behind the glass.

Sometimes you’re half-asleep, hoodie pulled over your nose, a note still pinned up.

"Wake me if you need me."

She never does.

You already do enough.

One night she’s face-planted in her textbook, eyelids flickering, when a soft tap tap tap makes her jerk up.

She blinks blearily at your window. You’re already grinning, another note pressed to the glass.

“Your head’s too pretty to squish like that.”

Megan snorts so loud she nearly wakes her mother.

She scrabbles for her pen, scribbles back on a sticky note, sticks it right over her desk lamp so you can see.

“Your FACE is too pretty.”

You pretend to swoon, clutching your chest, then throw your head back in a silent laugh that makes Megan’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

But it wasn’t all sunshine.

She started to notice things. Little things.

How you’d tug your hoodie tighter when the wind picked up, even inside.

How your aunt— sweet, round-faced, always waving at Megan when she came over with food, would hover in the doorway with a small white bottle in her palm.

How you’d swallow your pills with a forced grin.

How you’d flinch when you thought she wasn’t looking, hand pressed to your temple like something sharp was lodged behind your eyes.

Some days you were the one who looked tired— so tired. She’d be at her desk, head buried in trainee notes, when a soft tap would hit her window.

She’d look up and there you’d be breath fogging the glass, eyes heavy, hoodie string clutched in one fist like an anchor.

You’d knock again. Hold up your note: “Open up?”

And she would.

Always.

She’d lean out half her body if she had to, just to see you smile a little softer. Just to hear you say, “Tell me about your day. I want to hear your voice.”

And Megan would think: You’re saving me.

But she never said it out loud. Not then.

The days she comes home bouncing, the days she dances so hard her ponytail whips her own face.

She finishes with a dramatic flourish, arms out, hair sticking to her forehead— only to find you clapping behind your glass.

Your note: “Encore?”

Your window is safety.

It’s rescue.

When her rankings drop, when she comes home so tired her shoulders slump like broken wings, you don’t say anything clever.

You just throw a paper plane across the gap.

When she opens it: You’re still my number one.

A few feet away.

So near she could trace your outline through the frost on the glass.

So far she couldn’t touch you without pushing through cold air and crooked window frames.

And maybe that was enough— just barely.

Enough to keep her going.

Enough to keep you close.

Enough to hold her together when the practice rooms and ranking boards and tight smiles threatened to tear her apart.

But Megan was starting to wonder: Why the hoodie? Why the beanie? Why the pills?

She didn’t ask yet. She was scared to.

Not because she didn’t want to know.

But because she did.

One night, after she drags herself back from extra practice, she finds your light off. Panic spikes in her chest— so sharp she drops her bag right in the hallway.

But then you reappear, your window flicks open. You lean out, hair messy under your beanie, cheeks pale in the porch light.

She flings her own window wide, shivering at the gust of snow.

“Hey— where were you?” she hisses.

You smile weakly. “Bathroom. Sorry.”

“Bathroom for three hours?!”

Your shoulders rise in a shrug, but your eyes slide away. She sees it clearly this time. The tiny prescription bottle in your hand.

She doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

A week later, she can’t hold it in.

It happens because of the café.

Because for once, she sees you without glass between you.

Megan saw you before you saw her.

She hadn’t meant to, she was just out with her mom, arms wrapped around a takeout cup, the cold biting at her fingers through her gloves.

They’d stopped by the corner café near the station— the one with the drafty windows and the hanging vines half-dead from winter. She liked the smell of it, warm and faintly sweet with burnt coffee beans.

And then there you were.

Tucked into the corner booth by the window, hoodie up, beanie tugged low over your ears, fingers curled around a mug so big it nearly hid your mouth. You looked small, swallowed by your coat and the steam drifting from your drink.

Megan pressed her face to the window, breath fogging the glass. Her heart squeezed at the sight of you— so near, so real, not just inked letters and taped paper anymore. Not a grin behind a cold pane of glass.

Just you.

Her mom tapped her shoulder. “Go say hi.”

Megan didn’t even answer. She slipped inside, the door chime rattling above her, heat smacking her cheeks pink.

You looked up startled, then soft, like a light flicking on.

“Oh,” you said, voice shy but warm.

“Hey, superstar.”

Megan hated how fast her grin cracked her lips open. “Hey yourself.”

She ordered something she’d forgotten what by the time she sat down across from you, coat half-off her shoulders, scarf dumped on the seat beside her.

Up close, you looked tired.

She could see it now; the bruised shadows hugging the swell of your cheekbones, the way your fingers trembled slightly as they curled around the mug’s handle.

But you were smiling. At her.

And that made her chest hurt in a way she didn’t know how to name yet.

She talked. God, did she talk.

About practice, about how Adela sometimes fell asleep mid-stretch but would still nail the high notes. About Emily and her dumb jokes, about how Lara had joined just recently and sang like she’d swallowed moonlight. About Sophia— sweet, sunny Sophia who taught her bits of Tagalog between dance sets. And Daniela, fucking Daniela, who moved like lightning and never let her sulk for long.

She talked about the practice rooms, about the mirrors that made her hate her shoulders and love her feet all at once. About her games, Valorant when she was feeling fierce, Fortnite when she wanted chaos, but mostly Roblox, where she could just be stupid and loud.

She talked until her tea went cold, until your food arrived, a tiny bowl of soup, warm steam curling under your chin.

That’s when she heard herself. How her voice filled the booth like a balloon about to pop. How you hadn’t said much more than a hum here and there.

She froze. Fork halfway to her lips, eyes wide.

“Oh my God— shut me up,” she groans, burying her face in her sleeves.

“You must be so bored—”

You reach across the table, tug her sleeve down, just enough to see her eyes.

“I like your voice,” you say.

“Don’t stop.”

She flushed— cheeks hot, nose tingling. Like every time you’d flashed her those stupid window notes, telling her “You’re better than Taylor Swift” or “I’m so proud of you.”

For a while, the café felt softer than the snow outside.

Your knees brushed under the table once, twice — a quiet bump that made her toes curl in her boots.

You spooned your soup slowly, pausing to nod when she did start babbling again, about how she’d messed up a spin, about how her vocal coach said her high notes were finally less nasal.

You didn’t say much, just listened, really listened, eyes bright every time she used her hands to talk.

But when she looked closer— really looked, she saw it again.

The way your eyes dimmed when you thought she wasn’t watching.

The dark half-circles under your lashes. The way your fingers pressed at your temple like you were grounding yourself to stay here with her.

You both left when dusk slipped in, hands jammed in pockets, your shoulders hunched like the night wind could peel you away if you let it.

You walked side by side. Close enough that your coat brushed her arm every few steps.

She could have asked then.

Could have said, Why the hoodie? The beanie? The pills?

Could have asked why sometimes you winced when the streetlight flickered too bright.

But you turned your head, gave her that soft grin, and she didn’t. She swallowed it down, kept your warmth pressed to her side instead.

Back at your gate, you leaned against the post, eyes on her like she was something you’d dreamt up just to keep warm.

“Hey, Mei,” you murmured.

Her chest squeezed. “Yeah?”

You just smiled. Small. Thank you, that smile said, even though you didn’t say it out loud.

You didn’t need to.

Megan went to bed that night with her fingers still brushing her coat sleeve where your arm had touched hers.

She stared at her window until sleep dragged her under, half-hoping she’d see your note taped there already.

You were so close.

So near.

But she could feel it— something tugging you just out of reach.

She didn’t know what it was yet.

But she was starting to understand she’d do anything — anything — to hold you here a little longer.

—☆

Dream Academy launched in a whirl of lights and sweat and shaky fists clenched at her sides.

Megan stood under the hot stage lights, makeup sticky under her eyes, heart trying to punch through her ribs. She heard her name in the crowd— once, twice, louder each time, but all she could think was: I hope you’re watching.

She thought of your window. The smudged glass. The scraps of paper you’d hold up for her — “You did amazing today.” “You’re my favorite star.”

When the lights finally died and her mom pulled up at the curb outside the trainee building, Megan nearly threw her bag into the backseat. She didn’t even buckle her seatbelt, too busy craning her neck at the blur of the street.

Her mom laughed. “Slow down, superstar. What’s the rush?”

“I just— I wanna see—” you.

I wanna see you.

She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve, the leftover glitter from the show catching in the fuzz of her hoodie. “I wanna see someone.”

Her mom raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”

Megan flushed. “They’re waiting for me.”

The second they pulled into the driveway, she bolted— bag half-unzipped, dance shoes clattering out onto the steps.

She thundered up to her room, breath tearing at her throat.

Window.

She had to see your window.

She threw her curtains open so hard the rod nearly toppled.

Empty.

Your lamp was off. Curtains drawn. That gray Honda Civic that always parked crooked by your curb— gone.

A hollow thunk dropped into her chest. Heavy. Wrong.

I should’ve asked for your number, she thought. Stupid. Stupid. So close all these months and she didn’t even have your number.

She pressed her forehead to the glass, warm cheek against the cold pane. She imagined you there, hoodie up, beanie low, grin crooked around your marker and scrap of paper.

But the glass stayed empty.

Hours passed.

She didn’t eat. She didn’t shower. Just sat at her desk, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes darting up every time headlights flared in the street.

But when the moon greeted and her mom’s voice ringing in the hallway telling her to sleep, you still weren’t there. Your lamp is off and also the lights in your room. That gray Honda Civic, still no in sight in front of your porch

Days passed. She hated herself for not asking your number. Not making you write it on one of your stupid paper notes.

It comes to a head on a Tuesday.

A nothing Tuesday— gray, cold, the kind of day that makes Megan’s bones ache before she even steps off her mom's car.

She doesn’t even take her shoes off properly when she gets home, just kicks them half-off, bag slipping off her shoulder, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

She drags herself up the stairs. The whole way, she’s chanting a single hope: Please be there. Please be there. Please be there—

She drops her bag on her floor with a thud, flicks her lamp on, and there’s your window.

Dark.

She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until it leaves her in a sharp exhale.

“Okay,” she mumbles to herself, hugging her elbows. “Okay. Maybe you’re just— just tired. Maybe—”

She sees your car when she peeks through the curtains— that same old gray Civic parked crooked in your driveway, half-buried under melting snow.

Your light flicks on, sudden— so sudden she jerks back, heart in her throat.

You’re there. Sort of.

Half in shadow, half leaning against your window, one hand braced on the sill like it’s the only thing keeping you up.

You see her. Smile.

Lift your hand, that same goofy wave you always do. But tonight, it’s different. Slow. Like it takes too much effort.

Megan doesn’t think. She grabs a pen and paper so fast her elbow smacks her desk lamp.

Hey. Y/n? Are you okay?

She presses the paper to her window. Her palms leave ghost-prints on the glass.

You squint, read it, then your shoulders shake. A cough follows. Megan flinches at the sight of your lips parting, your face pinching in pain.

When you straighten again, you give her that thumbs up, the one that’s supposed to mean don’t worry.

But you’re trembling.

She knows it now.

She can’t pretend she doesn’t.

She shoves her window up so hard the frame rattles. Cold air bites her face.

“Open yours!” she whisper-shouts. “Hey— open it!”

You hesitate— she can see it, the tiny flicker of reluctance. But you do. Your window slides up with a faint creak. The wind flutters your hair under your beanie.

“Hey,” you say. Voice small. Worn thin.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” Megan’s voice cracks, too sharp for how quiet the neighborhood is. “What’s wrong with you?”

You blink. “What—?”

“Don’t play dumb. Don’t you dare.” Her breath fogs between you, floats away into the night.

“You’re always tired. You’re always wearing that stupid hoodie— and the beanie— and you flinch when the light’s too bright— and your aunt, I see her, she gives you all that medicine—”

She swallowed, voice trembling. “You’re— you’re scaring me.”

You sighed, looking away. The streetlight caught your lashes. You looked so tired.

“I didn’t wanna— make you worry—”

“Too late.”

You shrink at that. Your mouth opens — closes again.

She presses on, chest heaving. “What is it? What are you not telling me? If you— if you don’t want to be friends anymore, fine, I’ll— I’ll survive, okay? But don’t lie. Not to me. Please.”

Her voice breaks on that last word. It splinters in her throat like glass.

You close your eyes. For a second, you just stand there, your breath hitching in the cold.

Then you lean forward, elbows on your windowsill. You look at her— really look. She hates how your eyes shimmer under the streetlamp.

“I have brain cancer.”

The words are so quiet the wind almost steals them. But they hit her anyway. Hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Megan doesn’t speak. Can’t.

The world didn’t crack open. It just… stopped.

Megan’s breath hitched on her teeth. She felt the snow through the draft, stinging her eyes as if she were outside with you.

She wanted to say no.

Wanted to say stop lying.

Wanted to say come here.

You chuckled, that same laugh, but thinner. Like the cold stole half of it away. “It’s not— I mean, it’s not new. Been a while. It’s… fine.”

Fine.

That word stabbed her harder than the truth did.

“Since I was twelve. They tried everything. It got smaller, then bigger, then smaller again. It’s… it’s in my head. Makes me tired. Makes me sick sometimes. The medicine helps, but…”

You gesture weakly at your hoodie. Your beanie. Your trembling fingers.

Megan’s nails dig crescents into her palms. She wants to scream. She wants to punch her wall until her knuckles split. She wants to run across that stupid driveway, climb through your stupid window, and wrap herself around you until you can’t ever be cold again.

But all she can do is whisper, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You laugh, small, broken. “Would you have stayed if I did?”

“Yes!” It comes out too fast. Too loud.

“Yes— God, yes, you idiot! I would’ve—”

Her voice cracks again. She bites it back with her sleeve, hot tears spilling over her knuckles.

You lean out a bit, enough for the streetlight to catch the curve of your smile. It’s so soft, it breaks her heart twice.

“I didn’t want you to look at me different.”

“You’re—” She swipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re an idiot.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

She snorts, choked and watery. “You’re a bigger idiot.”

You tap your windowsill with your fingertip— a soft, quiet rhythm that travels through the night. “Hey. You don’t have to stay.”

Megan’s eyes snap up. “Shut up.”

“You don’t. If it’s too much—”

“Shut. Up.” She glares so hard she hopes you can feel it.

“I’m staying. Okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

You open your mouth to protest, but she cuts you off with a sharp jab of her finger against the glass.

“Swear to me,” she says.

“Swear you’ll fight. Swear you’ll tell me everything. I’m not your glass-wall neighbor anymore. If you’re sick — if you’re tired — if you’re scared — you tell me.”

Your eyes glisten. You nod once, chin trembling.

“Swear it,” she whispers.

“I swear.”

She holds your gaze through the snow. It’s so cold her knuckles burn against the metal window latch. But she doesn’t close it. Not yet.

Because that window— that stupid old window is the first place you both learn how to say I love you without saying it at all.

Megan pressed her forehead to the window frame. It was freezing. She let it burn her skin.

She wanted to yell. Break the glass. Break you for carrying this alone while she danced like a fool under neon lights.

Instead, her voice came out small. Raw.

“I wish I could—”

She bit her lip. Shook her head.

You tilted your chin, eyes blinking soft.

“I wish I could take it away,” she said. Her hands fisted the paint-flaked wood.

“I’d take it. All of it. If I could.”

You looked up. Forced a tiny grin. “Hey. I’m okay.”

“You’re not.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I swear to God, Y/n— if I could take it— I would.”

You smiled then, really smiled. The one that first caught her outside her gate that snowy day.

“Mei,” you whispered. Her name, softer than your cough, softer than the wind.

“You already do.”

That night, Megan Skiendel swore.

Swore to whatever God heard confessions from cracked bedroom windows.

Swore she’d keep dancing, keep running, keep shining.

Swore she’d hold you here to keep you breathing, laughing, living — as long as she could.

After that, she did what she could.

It started with a knock.

An ordinary knock, but Megan’s knuckles trembled like she was confessing a sin.

She stood on your porch, fists jammed in her coat pockets to hide the way her fingers wouldn’t stay still. She could see you through the frosted window, your shape curled on the couch, hoodie drawn tight around your neck. You looked up when you heard her, the softest spark flickering in your eyes.

Your aunt opened the door first— warm kitchen smell drifting past her shoulder. She looked at Megan like she was both a blessing and a threat.

“Hi, ma’am,” Megan said, voice so small she hated herself for it. “I— can I come in? Just for a while?”

Your aunt’s eyes flicked over her shoulder to you, your shy wave, your hopeful grin. Back to Megan.

“I don’t know, sweetheart…” She chewed her lip. “It’s just — what if something happens? I can’t—”

Megan nodded, fast, like her head was about to fall off. “Please. I’ll be careful. I’ll call you if anything happens. I’ll learn the numbers, the pills, all of it — I swear. I just—”

She glanced past your aunt, straight at you. You lifted your hand, palm out, like a promise.

“I just want to be there,” Megan whispered. “If that’s okay.”

You watched the way your aunt sighed. Watched the way Megan pressed her palms together like a prayer. Watched the tiny nod that cracked your world open a little wider.

Your aunt leaned into the doorframe, voice softer than Megan had ever heard it. “Then take my number. If anything happens — anything — you call me.”

Megan memorized it before she even typed it. Burned it into her head like the lyrics she practiced for hours at the training center.

Your aunt stepped aside. Megan slipped her shoes off at the door, heart hammering against her ribs.

When she stepped into the living room, you were already there, hoodie strings tangled between your fingers, smile shy but blooming.

“Hey, superstar,” you teased. Your voice was raspier than usual, but the grin made it holy.

From that day on, you were inseparable.

Between stage lights and practice mats, Megan found ways to slip you into every break she had. She’d drop her bag at her door, shoes half-tied, and knock on yours before her own mother could even ask about dinner.

Sometimes you’d sprawl on her bedroom floor, limbs tangled in the pastel blanket she’d drag down for you. Sometimes she’d curl up on your narrow bed, your old laptop perched on her stomach as you queued up videos; stupid cat compilations, music videos, that one terrible rom-com you both pretended to hate.

Cafés became your secret kingdoms, your heads bent over warm mugs, your laughter swallowed by steam and bad jazz music overhead.

She swore she’d never let you sit alone behind that window again.

One evening, it was your room. Late. The snow was melting off the roof, dripping onto the sill in soft, secret beats. Megan sat cross-legged on your bed, a playlist humming from her phone on your nightstand.

Your lamp threw the softest glow, enough to make her feel like the world outside didn’t exist.

You lay back against your pillows, beanie still snug, hoodie zipped tight like armor.

Megan’s eyes flicked from your face to the tiny patch of skin peeking out where your collarbones met your neck. She thought about how much you hid. How much you gave her— and how much you hadn’t let her see yet.

So she asked. Barely a whisper.

“Can I… see you?”

You blinked. Her chest tightened— afraid you’d say no. Afraid you’d say yes.

You shifted up, pulling your knees under you, knees brushing hers. Your fingers went to the edge of the beanie first.

Your eyes flicked to hers, a soft, unspoken You sure?

Megan nodded. Heart in her throat. Hands fisting your blanket.

Slowly, so slowly, you peeled it off. The beanie. The hoodie. Layers slipping away like silk in candlelight.

And there you were.

Your hair, or what was left of it, lay thin against your crown, soft wisps framing your temples. A pale, delicate patch where chemo and radiation had tried to take more than they should.

Your skin, pale, but warm where the lamplight kissed your shoulders.

Your eyes— still so bright. Even when you flinched a little under her gaze.

Megan didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

Didn’t breathe.

She swore you looked like something out of a myth— Aphrodite sculpted not from marble, but from all the fragile, stubborn things that refused to break.

God, she thought. God, you’re divine.

“Say something,” you whispered, fingers trembling where they tugged your hoodie loose at your hips.

Megan blinked once. Twice. Her voice caught on her tongue, too small for this kind of beauty.

“You’re…” She laughed— the breathless, dizzy kind.

“You’re so— You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever— God, come here—”

You laughed. “Shut up.”

She kissed your forehead. “Make me.”

So you did.

With a dumb pillow fight that turned into a dance that turned into you both giggling so hard her mother yelled from next door Keep it down, Megan!

She scooted closer, pressed her forehead to your bare shoulder. Her hands hovered, wanting to touch but scared to break you.

You laughed, a sound that made her eyes sting. You tugged her hand up, pressed her palm to your jaw.

“See?” you said, voice muffled in her hair.

“It’s just me.”

“Yeah,” Megan breathed.

“It’s you.”

You told her everything then. Between silly songs and the scratch of your blanket against your knees.

How you were twelve when they found the first mass.

How you hated hospitals more than anything— the smell, the humming lights, the way you learned too soon to read the pity in grown-ups’ eyes.

You told her how your mom left early on. How your aunt packed up her whole life to move into this sleepy street just for you.

You told her you were homeschooled because the world outside made you tired too easily. But you loved learning anyway, books stacked in crooked towers by your window, notebooks filled with doodles and lyrics.

Megan laughed until she cried when you teased her about that one Disney cameo she did— the awkward dances she did that still haunted her YouTube feed.

“God, I saw you in that commercial too — the one with the pet shop toys—”

“Shut up,” Megan squeaked, smacking your shoulder. “No one remembers that!”

“I do,” you giggled. “I remember everything.”

She didn’t know if the burn in her chest was shame or something too big for her ribs to hold.

Later that night, you dragged her to your tiny floor rug and made her dance. No mirrors, no studio lights— just you, your playlist, her bare feet tripping over yours as you both spun around your room like idiots.

You were all arms and laughter.

She was all heartbeat and promise.

When you collapsed onto your bed, breathless, your forehead pressed to hers, Megan thought:

If this is all I get — these minutes, these songs, this heartbeat — then I want every second of it.

And when you fell asleep, hoodie half-zipped, crown bare to her soft hand, she brushed her thumb over your temple.

—☆

When Adela’s name is called, Megan forgets how to breathe.

The studio lights burn hot overhead— cameras swing to catch her face, so she bites her lip raw to keep from showing too much. She hugs Adela so hard her earpiece tangles in Adela’s hair. Adela just laughs, watery.

“It’s fine,” Adela whispers in her ear.

“You’re staying. That’s what matters.”

Megan wants to say, No, it doesn’t. You do too.

But the mic’s hot. So she swallows it.

Adela’s voice is real, though. Raw.

“I can’t believe it’s me,” Adela says, her eyes wide, lashes still sticky with the glitter they forced on her before the announcement.

“It’s fine. It’s fine, right? Emily’s still here. You’re still here. I’ll be fine.”

Megan hugs her so tight she feels the rib of Adela’s mic pack pressing into her chest.

“It’s not fine,” she mumbles into her friend’s hair. “It’s bullshit.”

Adela snorts, a shaky half-laugh. “Tell that to the audience.”

When they filed out into the hallway, trainees herded like restless ghosts— she didn’t even wait for Emily’s hand on her shoulder. She tugged her phone out of her pocket with shaking hands.

One name. One safe place.

Megan: can I come over?

You didn’t say yes.

You didn’t say no.

When you opened your door, you didn’t bother with words. You stepped aside and let her slide her shoes off, one by one. She looked so small in your entryway— hair tied up sloppy, hoodie sleeves too long, eyes rimmed pink.

Upstairs, you sat on your bed, knees touching hers. She pressed her forehead to your shoulder like she’d run out of words somewhere between the dorm and your door.

“I’m so scared,” she mumbled into your sleeve.

You brushed her hair behind her ear, soft. “Of what, Mei?”

“That it’s gonna be me next. That I won’t be enough. That I—” Her breath caught.

“I’m scared I’m not good enough.”

You tilted her chin up— your thumb brushing her flushed cheek.

“You are, Mei,” you said.

“You are.”

She talked that night.

About everything— how she hated the bright lights when they turned harsh. How the dorms smelled like hairspray and reheated takeout. How Adela used to sneak her candy under the training table and Emily would cover for them both when they snuck out to the rooftop to scream into the night air.

You didn’t tell her your worries, not really.

She didn’t ask why your hands trembled when you pushed your hair behind your beanie. She didn’t ask why your eyes fluttered like you were always half-tired.

When her phone buzzed with a reminder, the call time for Korea— she looked at you like she’d just remembered you existed outside this room. She grabbed your hand so tight it made your wrist ache.

“Come with me,” she whispered, half-laughing because you both knew it was impossible.

You squeezed her palm. “I will. Every day. Window to window, screen to screen. Day or night. Call me. Yell at me. Wake me up. I don’t care.”

She sniffled; the messiest sound you’d ever heard her make. Then she laughed, wiped her eyes, and said, “God, I love you.”

Neither of you flinched when the words slipped out. You only tucked your face into her hair and whispered back, “Yeah. I love you too.”

She left. You stayed.

She held you through the calls when Adela got eliminated. Through the packing for Korea. Through the promises—time zones be damned, she’d call. And you did. You stayed up while she whispered her fears.

She stayed sane because you were there—on her screen, in her pocket, and always in her heart.

And every call dawn on your end, midnight on hers, your ceiling above you, her dorm ceiling above her kept you both stitched together like thread.

She’d slump onto her bunk, eyes ringed with exhaustion but sparking when your name popped up on her screen.

You’d grin, voice hoarse from coughing, asking, “Did you eat today?”

She’d roll her eyes, tilt the camera so you could see the plate on her desk— half-finished rice, cup ramen, the same cheap plastic fork.

“Show me your meds,” she’d shoot back.

“I know you forget when I’m not there.”

And you’d hold up your pill bottle like it was a trophy, mock salute, a promise you never really wanted to break.

When the days blurred, another elimination, another mission, another week you felt the tumor pressing sharp against the soft behind your eyes— you didn’t tell her how the pain made your fingers twitch when you held the phone.

She could see it, though.

“Hey,” she’d say, voice sharp even through patchy WiFi. “Sleep. Now. I’ll sing, okay?”

And she did. Soft and off-key and half-whispered so her dormmates wouldn’t wake. She’d hum your name between the lyrics, so it wouldn’t get lost in the space between you.

She’d show you tiny videos, Sophia brushing her hair, Lara singing off-key, Dani busting in to wave at you.

But the worst night came when she was halfway through a voice note about the new mission, all breathless excitement about the choreo she’d just learned when you couldn’t answer.

You were lying on your bed, phone perched on your pillow, but your hand wouldn’t stop shaking. The words slipped. The edge of your voice caught on a seizure that crawled up your spine like static.

“Y/n? Y/N?”

She didn’t know what to do— thousands of miles away, a glowing screen between her panic and your silence.

She shouted your name so many times Emily burst in, asking what was wrong. Megan couldn’t even say. Just shoved her phone at Emily’s chest, sobbing so hard her ribs hurt.

Sophia wrapped her arms around her from behind. Dani pressed tissues to her cheek. But none of it made your silence any softer.

She waited for the updates like they were lifelines. Waited until her dorm mom forced her to sleep, your name still sticky on her cracked phone screen.

When she finally flew home weeks later, a stage later, a mission later — she sprinted past her own front door, dance bag flung forgotten into the hall.

She didn’t even knock on your window. She knew you’d be waiting.

And there you were.

Hoodie up. Beanie loose. Smile thin, but still yours.

Holding up a crumpled sheet of paper to your glass:

“I saw your performance. You did great, Meiyok.”

She pressed her hand to the window, tears streaking her cheeks. You tapped yours on your side, grin crooked like always.

She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and cried so hard her mother found her sleeping there moments later. Puffy eyes, pouty lips, her head buried in her hands.

You were still here.

And for tonight— so was she.

The closer the final mission loomed, the heavier it sat in Megan’s chest, a stone tucked beneath her ribcage she couldn’t dance away.

Training got longer. Sleep got shorter. Her voice cracked more than she’d ever admit.

Emily would sneak her honey tea in the practice room. Dani would slap her back when she doubled over between takes. Sophia would squeeze her wrist backstage, a quiet You got this, Mei that made her bones stand steady.

And every time they said five-minute break, Megan ran for her phone.

Ran for you.

Your smile through the screen. Your laugh when she pulled faces. The gentle scolding when you caught her voice slipping raw around the edges.

Some nights, when the world blurred— lights too bright, mirrors too sharp, voices too cold, Megan would slip out. Hoodie tugged over damp hair, face scrubbed clean of stage makeup. She’d slump into the passenger seat beside her mother, who’d look at her with that small knowing smile.

“How’s them?” her mom would ask, quiet so no one in the parking lot heard.

Megan would lean her head against the window, watching the streetlights blur past, and grin even if her voice rasped raw: “Good. They’re okay today.”

Her mother would nod, pat her knee. “Good. That’s what matters.”

Sometimes, after the last practice ended and she could breathe in the dark of her room, she’d hear your gentle knock on her window, or worse, see your paper taped to the glass already waiting:

“Call me. Tell me everything.”

You’d talk her down from her panic spiral. Laugh when she griped about the new steps. Threaten to expose her old dance cover videos if she forgot to sleep again.

Sometimes, when you were too weak to hold the phone up, you’d prop it on your pillow and she’d talk for both of you— about the lights, the girls, the pressure, the stupid trainee dorm food. Your eyes would flutter open and closed, half-lidded, your lips curving just a little as if to say keep going, Mei — I’m still here.

And then the final mission.

Her knees ached from hours in the practice room. Her voice cracked on the last note, but her heart didn’t. She thought of you every step. Every beat. Your laugh folded inside her chest like a talisman against the cold.

When it was over, when she’d hugged Emily so hard her ribs hurt, when she’d stood under the stage lights pretending her hands didn’t shake— her mind went to one thing.

Home. You. Now.

The second the car pulled up, she barely said goodbye to the staff. Her mom didn’t ask and just unlocked the door and watched her daughter burst out, bag slamming into her bedroom floor, sneakers kicked halfway down the hall.

She didn’t even knock this time; she found your front door open. Your aunt was there, surprise softening to a gentle smile when she saw Megan standing there, hair still damp with sweat and glitter.

“Y/n's in their room,” your aunt said.

“They’ve been waiting.”

Megan knocked on your door once, out of habit— then pushed in.

There you were. Hoodie loose. Beanie askew. A grin that made her want to burst into sobs and laughter at once.

“Hey, superstar,” you croaked, voice still soft, still yours.

She crossed the room in two strides, all arms and breath and the shaky laugh she’d kept locked in her chest for weeks.

“Guess what?” you said, eyes shining. You were already reaching for your phone, your fingers trembling as you held it out to her. The hospital app open, your test results pulled up like a prize.

“The cells—” you breathed. “They’re shrinking, Mei.”

For a second, she just stared at the screen. The lines, the numbers. None of it made sense— except it did, because your eyes were the brightest she’d seen them in months.

She looked at you. Really looked.

The soft patch of hair under your beanie. The color in your cheeks. The way your grin trembled like you didn’t know if you were allowed to be this happy.

Then she did what she always did when words were too small. She threw her arms around you so hard you squeaked, your phone slipping onto the blanket between you.

You fell back against the pillows, her laugh bursting warm against your neck.

“They’re shrinking,” she whispered, voice cracking on the miracle of it. “You’re— you’re getting better.

“You’re staying.”

You tugged her face up— your palm warm against her jaw.

“For you, superstar. Gotta see you debut, right?”

You danced that night.

Right there in your tiny room, hospital numbers forgotten, music crackling from her phone speaker.

She spun you by the wrists, your laughter rasping into her shoulder when you stumbled into her dresser. She kissed your temple— bold enough to let her lips linger there. You let her.

You both sang along, off-key, half the lyrics wrong. You fell into her arms when your knees buckled, not from sickness, but from laughing too damn hard.

For that one night, with the final mission behind her, your body fighting for her, your fingers tangled in her hair— Megan Skiendel let herself believe it might all be okay.

You were her reason. The spark behind every note she’d ever hit just a little too hard.

And as you curled up beside her on your bed, your chest rising steady under her palm— she knew:

If you’re breathing, then I’m breathing.

If you’re staying, then I’m staying.

If you’re here — then so am I.

—☆

The final broadcast lights were nothing like the training room’s.

They were warm, burning, blinding and perfect.

Megan stood under them with her knees locked, her mic trembling in her hand. She could feel Sophia’s palm pressed between her shoulder blades. Dani’s breath steady at her side. Lara bouncing on her toes, Yoochae’s tiny giggle pressed into Megan’s ear.

It felt unreal— all of it. The stage. The cameras. The rows and rows of people she couldn’t see through the spots dancing in her eyes.

Except for one person.

Because when she squinted, past the lights, past the screaming fans and the floating slogans, there was you.

Not through glass. Not pixelated on a screen. Not waiting behind your window with a paper note in your palm.

But here— really here, pressed up against the barricade with her mother at your side, your hoodie sleeves rolled over trembling hands, a mask tugged down just enough to show your grin. Your eyes shining like you’d stolen every star above this city and tucked them behind your lashes.

When they called her name, she felt it in her bones first. Her name on someone else’s lips, but it was yours she heard:

Meiyok. Superstar. My girl.

She didn’t know she was crying until Sophia grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer. Until Lara’s arms wrapped around her waist. Until Dani’s laugh cracked beside her ear. Until Yoochae’s shriek hit her heart like confetti.

She found your eyes in the crowd, and you were already crying too.

We did it, she wanted to say.

We did it, we did it, we did it.

She held onto everyone that night. The group hug with Manon that nearly knocked her mic to the floor. The way she buried her face in Emily’s shoulder— poor Emily, tears and fake lashes and laughter tangled up as she whispered, “You better make it worth it, Megan.”

And Megan could only nod because how do you promise forever when your forever is standing three rows back, hoodie up, eyes bright?

She got through the confetti, the cameras, the final bow. Got through the drive home, her mom’s quiet humming in the driver’s seat. Her bag heavy with flowers, her hair tangled with bobby pins she’d never find again.

She could’ve stayed home. She could’ve collapsed on her bed. But you were waiting by her front gate like you’d never left— like you’d been standing there the whole time she was becoming someone new.

So she grabbed your hand and said, “Let’s go.”

The parking lot was empty.

The lights buzzed overhead with moths flickering through the cones of yellow like tiny planets drawn to your warmth.

She sat on the bench first, sneakers knocking yours when you joined her. You leaned your head on her shoulder, breath warm through the thin fabric of her stage hoodie.

It was quiet.

Quiet in a way only parking lots can be wide, echoing, forgiving. Just oil stains, cracked concrete, and your heartbeat under her palm.

She didn’t plan the words. Didn’t rehearse them. Didn’t check her voice for pitch.

She just said it— soft, reckless:

“Hey. I love you, you know that?”

It landed between you like a spark. Like something too small to see but too big to hold.

Your head lifted, your lashes fluttered, the tired shimmer in your eyes brighter than any stage light she’d ever stand under.

Then your lips curved. Crooked. Certain.

“Yeah. I love you too, you know?”

She didn’t mean to cry. Really, she didn’t.

But her shoulders shook. A quiet hiccup against your neck as you laughed, warm, wheezing, perfect.

You kissed her— you did. Right there on that splintering bench, with the world sprawling wide and indifferent around you. Your lips pressed hers like a promise she’d spend every day keeping.

When you pulled back, your grin split the night.

And then because you were you, too near, too loud, you cupped your hands around your mouth and yelled up to the flickering streetlight, to the wide sky that never listened:

“I’M DATING MEGAN MEIYOK SKIENDEL OF KATSEYE!”

Your voice cracked at the end, a bark of laughter stuck in your throat.

She slapped your shoulder gentle, hopeless, your name half-whispered, half-scolded through her grin. Her cheeks pink, her eyes wet. Your heartbeat tucked under her ribs like a second chance.

“Hey,” she said again, her voice wobbling as she leaned into your side — the cold bench beneath you, the soft summer wind above you.

“I love you.”

Again.

And you kissed her again.

And the parking lot held the echo of your laughter like it was the only thing that could ever live there.

—☆

But the windows never stopped being part of you two.

The ginger hair was your idea.

Sort of.

Megan remembered the first time she told you, face pressed close to her laptop, feet swinging off the edge of the dorm bed as you asked “What color next, superstar?”

She’d laughed, tugged a strand behind her ear. “Something stupid. Something warm. I don’t know— ginger?”

You’d said, “Perfect. Orange cat.”

And you’d coughed so hard after that Megan almost hung up, but you only waved her off— same old, same old. It would pass. It always did.

When she dyed her hair ginger, she pressed dumb photos to the glass, her looking like a carrot.

You wrote back "cute carrot." She stuck her tongue out at you.

Megan’s ginger hair looked ridiculous at first.

Too bright under the bathroom light, too brassy when she Facetimed you that night— smudges of dye still staining her ears.

You’d laughed, weak but true, your thumb brushing the screen as if you could swipe the silly blush off her cheeks.

“Orange cat energy, Mei.” You wheezed out a giggle, and she’d threatened to block you if you called her Garfield again.

And still you were there. For every practice. Every rant. Every dumb photo of her with ginger hair that she made you rate ten times over. Her members learned your name. Sophia would yell into the phone: "Y/n! Take care of our Megan!" Dani would blow you kisses off-screen.

You were the only part of her life she never wanted to trade for fame.

In the practice room, Sophia flicked her ponytail, humming, “Our Megan looks like autumn now.”

Dani snorted, “More like pumpkin spice.”

Manon peeked over her shoulder mid-selfie, grinning when she saw you waving through the screen. “Hi superstar’s superstar!” she’d chirp, every single time.

They knew. They all knew.

They knew she’d stand in the corner by the mirrors, FaceTiming you between sets, your sleepy voice a tether to something warm when the music got too loud.

When you were strong enough, you’d stay up with her— voice fuzzy, eyes half-closed as she ranted about formations and footwork and how she couldn’t hit the same note for the fucking bridge.

You’d listen, always. Until your breath slowed, and her voice would hush, and she’d just watch you sleep through a cracked screen.

But your calls grew shorter.

Your coughs, sharper.

Some nights, your aunt answered instead— gentle, apologetic, “They’re resting, Megan. They’re so tired.”

So she left notes on her window again.

Little post-its with scribbled hearts and “Orange cat loves you.”

Or a quick doodle of your smile beside hers, stick figures with giant eyes and silly hats.

The window was her anchor.

When her voice cracked on the bridge of a song.

When her knees gave out for the hundredth time on that dance drop.

When she wanted to throw her phone at the wall because you’d sent a photo of you trying to smile with another IV taped to your chest.

She’d come back late, hair still damp with sweat, knees bruised from practicing the same drop a hundred times and find your note waiting too. Always waiting.

A shaky heart. A “Good luck, Meiyok.”

Sometimes just her name in your crooked handwriting.

She’d press her palm to the cold glass, pretend your fingers were on the other side.

Then the night the note didn’t come.

She found out from her mom first— her mom’s phone buzzing while they sat in the car, the city lights stuttering by the window.

Your aunt’s voice, muffled. Megan heard three words: “hospital… seizure… again…”

And that was enough.

She made her mom drive faster than she ever had, her bag forgotten in the backseat, her hair sticking to her forehead as she half-ran through the hospital corridor.

Your aunt waited near the nurses’ station, eyes rimmed red, that same soft hush in her voice: “They’re asking for you, Megan.”

When Megan stepped into your room, it didn’t look like you at first.

The wires, the hum of the monitor, the IV dripping slow.

Your lashes fluttered. Your lips parted— cracked, too dry.

Your room was too quiet.

She hated the way you looked small in that bed. Hated the way the machine hummed like it knew something she didn’t.

But when you looked up— really looked, your eyes found her like they always did.

Her knees hit the side of your bed so fast the metal rattled. She folded herself down beside you, cheek to your shoulder, hand clutching yours like an anchor she couldn’t let drift.

She shuffled to your side, your hand slipping easily into hers, your pulse slow but there, there, there.

“Hey.” Her voice broke. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron.

“You said you’d see me debut. Remember? That’s our deal, dummy.”

Your eyelids fluttered, lashes brushing your sunken cheeks. You tried to smile. It tugged at the IV tape near your mouth.

“I remember. Superstar.”

Your fingers twitched, grazing her ginger hair. You did that whenever you wanted to tell her I see you.

You always saw her— the orange cat, the bright thing, your sun.

She wanted to crawl into the bed beside you.

She wanted to plug herself into your veins and pump all her stupid stubborn hope into your bones.

But instead she pressed her cheek to your arm, nose brushing your wrist. She let the tears come this time.

“I’ll sing so loud you’ll hear it from here, okay? So you better be listening. Better be—”

Your breath hitched. A laugh, dry as paper.

“I’ll be there, Meiyok. Promise.”

“Don’t you dare leave me yet.” She pressed her forehead to your wrist — your pulse a soft, traitorous flutter under skin that felt too thin.

She didn’t care. Didn’t care that her tears made your gown damp. Didn’t care that her voice hiccupped and cracked. Didn’t care that she was repeating the same thing over and over:

“Stay, okay? Stay. Please, baby, just— stay.”

She stayed that night. Stayed until the nurses told her to step out so they could change your sheets, check your lines.

She didn’t want to move. She wanted to staple her shadow to the linoleum floor.

She did it anyway.

She stood outside the window, forehead to the glass, watching them adjust the machines. Watching you sleep.

The doctors told her she’d have to wait in the hallway when they came to check you.

She did, perched on a stiff chair, hoodie pulled over her ginger hair, your laughter echoing in her memory like a heartbeat she refused to let silence claim.

After that, you never went home again.

She hated the hospital. Hated the smell. Hated the beep of machines that dipped when you laughed too hard, or when your eyes rolled back and you’d slip into that place she couldn’t follow.

She kept coming anyway. Skipped choreo. Ditched warm-ups. Apologized later to Sophia, Dani, Yoonchae, Lara, Manon— every time they found her crying in the dorm hallway because she’d seen your name flash on her phone and knew what it meant.

They forgave her. They always did.

They’d sneak her snacks for you, those dumb jellies you liked when you could still swallow them. They’d record silly messages and beg the nurses to let her play them at your bedside.

Her training days blurred into each other. The dorm, the van, the practice room, the dorm again. Sophia would shove her snacks. Dani would hold her hair back when she cried in the bathroom stall after your call dropped mid-sentence.

“Hey. Megan. They’ll be okay, okay? They promised.”

She nodded. Always nodded. But her heart knew what her mouth wouldn’t say.

Sometimes you’d wake. Smile. Whisper her name like it was still yours to say.

You’d press your trembling hand to her dyed hair, still ginger under the harsh white hospital lights, and rasp out: “Orange cat.”

And Megan would laugh through her tears because if she didn’t, her ribs might shatter from trying to hold her heart in place.

She kept one promise always:

You will see me debut.

You have to.

—☆

The showcase was everything.

Lights so bright they hurt her eyes, screams so loud her ears rang for hours after. But the moment it ended, it was you she wanted.

She didn’t even bother wiping off the glitter stuck to her cheeks. Didn’t care that her voice was hoarse when she asked her mom— begged her, really, to drive her straight to the hospital.

She barely remembers the car ride, just the static hum of the radio her mom left on to drown out the silence. Megan sat in the back, knees pulled to her chest, eyes burning holes through the window.

The stage lights were still stuck to her skin, glitter in her hair, a curl of confetti tucked into her hoodie pocket. Proof she did it— proof you were supposed to see her shine.

The automatic doors of the hospital hissed open like a secret. The smell hit her first, disinfectant, too bright.

She hated that smell. She hated the white floors, the squeak of her sneakers on linoleum. She hated how the fluorescent lights made the shadows under her eyes look like bruises.

Your aunt was there in the hallway, hands wringing the hem of her cardigan. When she saw Megan, her eyes softened but her mouth didn’t know how to smile anymore. She only nodded down the corridor. They’re waiting.

She burst through your door like a storm of leftover confetti, hair tousled, eyes wide, hands reaching for yours like magnets.

You were awake, half-upright in bed, blanket tucked high on your chest to hide the way your ribs poked through your hospital gown.

She slipped through like she might wake you, as if the beep of the monitor wasn’t loud enough to remind her your body was still here.

For now.

You looked so small. The blanket tucked under your chin, your beanie gone, hair just a ghost of fuzz on your crown. The tubes were everywhere, nose, arms, tape on tape on tape, your skin underneath papery thin. But your mouth curled up when you saw her— slow, cracked, but real.

Megan practically collapsed onto the edge of your bed; knees tucked under her like she was a kid again. She caught your hand and pressed it to her cheek, the machine at your side faithfully recording each flutter of your heartbeat.

“Superstar,” you rasped, voice so soft she almost thought she imagined it.

She could have laughed, could have broken right there, but instead she stumbled to the edge of your bed, knelt on the chair like a kid trying to peek onto the counter.

She grabbed your hand— cold, so cold — and pressed it to her mouth.

“I did it,” she breathed against your knuckles. “Did you see me? You saw me, right?”

You nodded, eyelids fluttering like moth wings. “Saw… everything.”

The monitor hummed behind you, steady for now, a ghost heartbeat that felt too fragile for the room.

Megan touched your cheek with her free hand, brushing her thumb under your eye where a bruise-like shadow clung stubbornly.

She didn’t care about the needles or the lines.

She cared that your fingers squeezed hers back, even if it was weak, even if it hurt.

She wanted to tell you everything— how Sophia almost tripped when they called her name, how Dani grabbed her so tight backstage she almost choked, how the confetti looked like snow in the lights.

But the words fell out in a rush, tumbling over each other, her voice cracking like thin glass.

“I did it,” she babbled, breathless.

“Did you hear me, baby? I was so shaky — I almost tripped but Sophia caught me, and Dani almost tackled me when they called my name and— God, you should’ve heard them scream, Y/n, they screamed for me.”

You squeezed her fingers, weak but certain. You tried to smile. “I heard you,” you rasped.

“I always do.”

She laughed, breath catching, leaning in so close your foreheads nearly touched. “Good. You better. You promised.”

You stared at her then— really stared. Like you were memorizing every inch of her freckled cheeks, the smudge of mascara under her eyes, the new ginger roots peeking through her messy ponytail.

Your lips twitched. You lifted her hand to your mouth, pressed the lightest kiss to her knuckles. A hospital beep punctuated the silence, too fast now, too erratic.

The monitor at your bedside stuttered— beep beep beep, too fast, too eager.

Megan’s grin faltered. “Hey— hey, why’s it going so fast, huh?” She leaned back, searching your eyes for the joke.

“Y/n, you okay? I’m gonna— I’m gonna call the nurse, okay?”

She moved to stand but your fingers caught hers, tugging her back down.

And then you huffed out the softest laugh, voice paper-thin. “Stop looking so pretty then.”

She laughed, covered her face. “Asshole.”

It punched the breath out of her chest. She squeaked, flushing pink to her ears, burying her face in the crook of your shoulder. “Don’t say that— dummy— don’t do that, you’ll make it worse—”

You just smiled— small, tired, but so real.

“Hey, Mei?”

She hummed against your skin. “Mm?”

Your hand found her chin, guiding her face up so you could see each other, window-clear, no secrets left.

“You’re better than Taylor Swift.”

She snorted. “Yeah? You think—”

She opened her mouth to tease you, again — ‘course I am, I'm your superstar, remember?’ — but the monitor shrieked before she could.

But the line on the monitor screamed then— a long, flat sound that cracked through the room like a gunshot.

One flat, endless note.

Her heart stopped with yours.

Her heart slammed into her ribs, once, twice, three times— before it shattered.

“Y/n?” She barked your name like you’d just dropped a glass of milk on the kitchen floor.

“Y/n— hey, no— no, no— baby—”

She fumbled for the call button, smashed it until the nurse sprinted in, too calm, too calm when Megan’s whole world was caving in. She slapped the call button so hard it rattled on its plastic mount.

“Please— please— they just— they just told me I’m better than Taylor Swift, they can’t— they can’t be gone—”

The world fuzzed out— white walls, white noise. All she heard was the echo of her own breath tearing out of her lungs.

She pressed her forehead to your chest like maybe, just maybe, she could push her heartbeat into yours.

“Not fair— not fair— we just started— you said you’d see me dance— you said— you said—”

They were pushing her back. She didn’t feel her knees hit the floor, didn’t feel her mother’s hands on her shoulders. She only saw the bed rolling forward, the machines trailing behind like ghosts.

She was kneeling by your bed now, forehead pressed to your wrist, hoping for a pulse that wouldn’t come.

When they wheeled you away, bed rattling down the corridor under harsh white lights, Megan stumbled after you.

A window again.

Like the first one. Like the stupid, perfect one where you’d written You’re better than Taylor Swift on notebook paper, big block letters crooked from your shaking hands.

A pane of glass, same as the first day, same as forever.

She pressed her hand to it, useless, trembling, watching the shadows of doctors bending over you— pressing, shouting, hoping.

She hoped too.

Harder than she’d ever prayed in her life.

She pressed her palm flat to it, watching you, the bandage at your temple, the soft slack curve of your mouth that would never tease her again.

She felt her throat crack open on a scream she didn’t know she’d held back all this time. Her mother caught her before she could slam her fist into the glass, cradled her against her chest like she was five again, like she was breakable, like she hadn’t already broken.

“They’re trying, right?” she whispered into her sleeve.

“They’re trying so hard, right?”

Her mom gathered her up then, arms tight around her shoulders, rocking her like she was little again.

“They’re trying, Mei,” her mother said.

“They’re trying, sweetheart.”

Megan shut her eyes tight, forehead pressed to the glass that once made her believe she could reach you anytime she wanted.

She wished it were true.

She wished the window was still just a window— not the wall between before and after.

She wished you’d come back and hold up a dumb piece of paper, all crooked letters, saying “You did good, superstar.”

She wished, and in wishing, she loved you harder than any stage could hold.

They tried.

She knew they did.

But she wished— with everything left in her— that they’d tried harder.

Because Megan Skiendel never thought a love story could start with a window.

She never thought it would end there, either.

Megan sat at her desk, elbows braced on the sill, ginger hair tucked behind her ear where it wouldn’t catch her tears.

The window was cracked open. It didn’t face anything special anymore— just your old curtains, drawn tight, no light behind them.

She pressed her forehead to the glass until her breath fogged a small circle, just like you’d done that first week tracing hearts and dumb jokes in condensation.

The paper was there, right where it always waited— an old sticky note pad she’d scribbled practice schedules on, now covered in uneven handwriting. Some letters smudged from her tears. Some lines so faint because her pen ran out halfway through.

Hey dummy, it read.

I went to rehearsal today. Dani fell on her ass again during the new choreo. Sophia laughed so hard she nearly got kicked by Lara. Manon braided my hair while I slept on her shoulder in the van. It was sunny when we came back— you would’ve hated it. Too bright, you’d say.

She paused, the pen hovering, tears dripping on the wood of the sill.

I kept looking for you when I got home. I looked at your window first thing, like always. I still do.

Outside, the wind rattled the street signs. A neighbor’s dog barked once. Somewhere down the block, someone was listening to a song with too much bass— a beat that made the walls vibrate like your old laughter through the paper-thin walls.

Megan squeezed her eyes shut. Pushed the pen down again.

They say I should get some sleep. But I don’t want to sleep yet. What if I dream about you and I don’t wake up with you there?

She tore the note off, folded it carefully. She pressed it to the glass. On your side— the empty side— she saw the ghost of that first sign you held: You’re a great dancer! :)

She left the paper there. Taped it crooked, edges flapping when the draft crept in. She liked it that way, it made it feel like you might reach out from the dark, knock once on the glass, lift another note in your messy scrawl:

You did good, superstar.

Megan curled up by the window that night. Her cheek pressed to her arm; ginger hair spread like a little sun on her pillow. She watched your curtains in the dark until her eyes wouldn’t stay open.

When she dreamed, she swore she heard you laughing in the hallway, paper rustling, your voice slipping through the crack:

Hey Mei —

You’re still better than Taylor Swift.

Authors Note: Heeeyyy @kkoga here's a Megan fic :D

BLAME @charlvr

#justtluvrr recs #katseye x reader #megan skiendiel x reader #i'm sobbing rn

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