On the corner of the couch, Jiyoon is huddled up in her most worn-in sweats, her hair in a greasy topknot, as she eats nurungji off a plate. But it’s not the crispy, scorched rice that I notice. It’s that the hand holding it features purple nails. The exact same shade of Christian Louboutin Lilac Dream that’s currently spilled all over my notebook…

Jiyoon? Why would Jiyoon do this to me? I open my mouth to say something, only to close it again. Maybe it was just an accident. I can see Jiyoon looking for some paper to place under her hand to catch any stray polish… grabbing my notebook… maybe the bottle tipped, and she ripped out the stained pages?

“Hey, Jiyoon,” I start to ask gently. But Jiyoon just grabs her plate of nurungji and heads toward our bedroom.

“Sorry, guys,” she chokes out. “I don’t think I’m up for a movie tonight.” The door to our room slams behind her.

The rest of the group looks on, confused and concerned.

“Don’t worry, I got it.” I tap lightly on our door before following Jiyoon into our room.

She’s lying on her bed, curled up, facing the wall. I can tell from the tremble of her shoulders that she’s crying. I sit on the bed behind her, reaching over to give her gentle head scratches, like my mom used to do for me whenever I was sick or sad, the tingles running from my scalp down my spine, helping me relax.

“I’m so sorry about Jin, Jiyoon,” I say. “But you’re one of the strongest girls in this group. If anyone can survive this, you can.” I feel Jiyoon sigh a deep breath, her tears starting to slow. She rolls over so she’s facing me, a guilty look in her eyes. “Don’t worry about the notebook,” I say quickly. “I know it was an accident.”

Jiyoon’s eyes dart down. She swallows, then looks back up at me. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” she says weakly. For a second, it looks like she has more she wants to say, but then she averts her eyes again, saying, “I think I just need some sleep now.” She rolls again to face toward the wall.

I sit for what feels like hours, rubbing Jiyoon’s back. When she’s finally snoring softly, I tiptoe out to the living room. I can’t sleep. My mind is too busy, whirring with thoughts that I can’t seem to quiet. But it looks like I’m not the only one who’s been tossing and turning. Mina is sitting on the couch in her pajamas, nursing a mug of hot cocoa.

“What are you doing up?” I say, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and pulling a pillow into my lap.