“Is Somi coming?” Hajun asks nervously as she writes.

Kisa glances up at him in amusement from where she stands behind the reception desk of the sick bay. “You know, I can’t tell if you’re terrified or excited to see her.”

The idol grimaces, rubbing the nape of his neck. His ears have gone blue. “I’m actually not sure, either,” he admits ruefully. “But I could say the same thing about you and Seokga.”

Kisa jolts and drops her pen onto the tiled floor. Blushing furiously, she ducks out of sight to grab it. When she slowly straightens back to her feet, she sees that Hajun has snatched the notebook and is riffling through it. Mortification spreads through her as her friend squints down at a messy page.

“Kisa,” he says, like he’s trying very hard not to snicker, “I’m not as good at reading in English as I am in Korean, but…did you write ‘he has a good arse’ before scribbling it out?”

She closes her eyes and wishes that the ground would swallow her whole. “No,” she says, with what she hopes is a stern finality. Unfortunately, her voice squeaks a bit at the end.

“Are you sure?”

“Positively certain.” She opens her eyes and crosses her arms, ignoring Hajun’s amused grin. “And if I had, hypothetically, written something about his…posterior…it wouldn’t matter. We’re getting off this ship, Hajun, and I-I refuse to be sidetracked by bums.” Besides, she has never been one for staring at men, and she’s certain she’s gone a bit insane. There’s really no good reason why she should have been admiring Seokga’s arse while he spoke with Yeomra, or as they walked down to the I-95 from the sick bay. It’s ridiculous.

Hajun’s smile fades as he slides the notebook back over to her. “It’s okay to like him,” he tells her slowly. “I mean…I know you don’t remember him, but you loved him in a past life. And it’s pretty clear that he loved you. That must mean something, right?”

Kisa swallows hard, and when she speaks, her voice is tense—almost brittle, on the verge of breaking. “I’m not made of pine. I’m made of oak.” She stares down at the battered notebook as her friend makes a small uncomprehending sound of complete confusion that grates on her nerves. Can’t he understand? Can’t anybody? Never has she felt so unheard, so—so unseen. “And I want to—to live again. I want to read my favorite book while it’s storming outside, and feel the sun on my skin, and do all the things I was too busy to do this time around—”