Chapter 2: Midnight Confessions
The darkness in the dorm room was thick and velvety, punctuated only by the faint, orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Lisa lay perfectly still in her bunk, listening to the rhythmic sound of Rose’s breathing below. It was steady, deep. Asleep.
She’d been counting the faint cracks in the plaster for over an hour. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the friendly curve of Araya’s smile, which then dissolved into the sneering faces from years ago. Her mind replayed the harmless dinner conversation on a loop, searching for hidden barbs, finding none, and yet feeling the phantom sting all the same.
With a frustrated sigh, she pushed back her blanket. The cool air hit her skin. She climbed down the ladder, her movements silent from a lifetime of dance training, and stood hesitating beside Rose’s bed.
Rose was a small mound under her comforter, one arm flung out, her fingers loosely curled. Her face was smooth, peaceful.
Lisa’s chest felt tight. It was a childish need, but it was overwhelming. The fear felt too big to hold alone in the dark.
Gently, careful not to jar the frame, she lifted the edge of Rose’s blanket and slid in. The mattress was warm from Rose’s body heat and smelled like her lavender laundry detergent and the faint, familiar hint of her peach-scented shampoo.
Rose stirred immediately. Not a startled jump, but a slow, conscious surfacing. “Lili?” she mumbled, her voice slurry with sleep. She didn’t open her eyes.
“Yeah. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”
“M’not asleep.” Rose shifted onto her side, making room without question. Her back was to Lisa, a silent invitation. “Bad dream?”
“No. Just thinking.”
“Worst hobby ever.” Rose yawned, then reached back blindly, her hand patting the air until it found Lisa’s arm. She gave it a soft, reassuring squeeze, then let her hand rest there. “Talk or quiet?”
The simple touch, the easy acceptance, made Lisa’s throat ache. “It was a good night,” she whispered to the dark. “The tteokbokki was stupid spicy. Araya paid, said it was a ‘welcome to the crew’ thing. We talked about that new Thai horror film. It was normal.”
Rose was quiet for a moment, her breathing the only sound. “But.”
“But I felt like I was acting. The whole time. Laughing a little too loud, talking a little too much about dance theory. Like if I performed ‘Lalisa, Fun Dance Major’ perfectly enough, no one would look for the wiring backstage.”
Rose’s thumb moved in a slow, soothing arc on Lisa’s skin. “You weren’t acting. You are fun. You do love dance theory. That’s all real.”
“It feels like it’s built on top of a sinkhole, Rosie. One wrong step and everyone sees the hole.” The words came out in a rush, hushed and raw. “What if she knows someone from back home? What if someone told her? It would just… spread here. All over again. I’d have to leave. I couldn’t do it again.”
“You won’t have to leave.” Rose’s voice was low, absolute. She turned over now, facing Lisa in the dimness. Their noses were almost touching. Lisa could see the earnest gleam in her eyes. “First of all, this is your school as much as anyone’s. Second, if anyone is shitty—which they won’t be—you have me. And Jisoo. And we have a surprisingly heavy geology textbook we can swing as a weapon.”
A wet laugh escaped Lisa. “Your solution is violence?”
“My solution is loyal, heavily-armed friends. It’s a good solution.” Rose poked her forehead. “You’re building a tragedy in your head before anything’s happened. She’s just a girl who likes tteokbokki and thinks you’re a good dancer.”
“She’s cute,” Lisa admitted softly, the confession feeling dangerous.
Rose’s eyebrows waggled, a ridiculous gesture in the dark. “Ooh. Well, that changes everything. Now you have to be cool, or you’ll blow your shot.”
“I’m not shooting anything!”
“You’re shooting yourself in the foot with all this worry.” Rose sighed, her playful tone fading back into warmth. “Listen. You don’t owe anyone your history. Not Araya, not anyone. You tell people what you want, when you want. If you ever want to. It’s yours. Not theirs.”
Lisa absorbed that. The weight of the secret felt so communal, so public, in her memory. The idea that it could still be private, that she had a right to that privacy, was a novel anchor.
“What if I want to tell someone? Eventually?” The question was barely a breath.
“Then you’ll know they’re the right person,” Rose said simply. “And you’ll tell them. And if they’re not a complete idiot, they’ll just see more of you. That’s all.”
Outside, a car passed, its headlights painting a slow sweep across the ceiling. The room brightened momentarily, showing the familiar clutter, the shared life, before sinking back into comforting gloom.
“Thanks,” Lisa whispered.
“For what? The bed is tiny, you’re stealing my warmth, and your feet are probably cold,” Rose grumbled, but she slung an arm over Lisa’s waist and pulled her closer, tucking Lisa’s head under her chin. It was a gesture from a thousand sleepovers, a decade of friendship.
Lisa relaxed, the tension finally bleeding from her shoulders. The sinkhole in her chest didn’t feel so deep. Here, pressed against the steady rhythm of Rose’s heartbeat, it felt… manageable.
“Your hair smells like coffee and street food,” Rose mumbled into her hair.
“Your hair smells like a peach exploded.”
“That’s the premium stuff. Show respect.”
They lay in silence for a long while, on the precipice of sleep. Lisa’s thoughts were quieter now, soft at the edges.
“Rosie?”
“Mmm?”
“If my feet get cold, I’m putting them on your legs.”
“I will push you onto the floor. I swear I will.”
Lisa smiled, her eyes closed. The last thing she felt, as sleep finally pulled her under, was Rose’s fingers gently tracing a meaningless, comforting pattern on her back—a silent reminder in the dark that she was known, and she was safe.
The morning light was less aggressive, filtered through a layer of milky cloud. Lisa woke up tangled with Rose, limbs heavy with proper sleep. For a second, she was disoriented, then the previous night’s conversation settled over her with a gentle clarity.
She extricated herself carefully, letting Rose snore softly into the pillow.
The day felt different. Lighter. She moved through her morning routine with a sense of purpose, pulling on her favorite loose cargo pants and a tight tank top. She caught her own eye in the foggy bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth. Tall, boyish, a smear of sleep in the corner of her eye. Just her.
Rose shuffled in as she was fixing her hair, yawning dramatically. “You used all the hot water, didn’t you?”
“I am a creature of routine and steam,” Lisa said, popping her hip. “You’re a creature of chaos and cold splashes.”
“It builds character.” Rose leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “You look better.”
“I feel better.” Lisa met her gaze in the mirror. “Not fixed. But better.”
“Good.” Rose smiled, then her eyes went wide. “Oh crap, I have that composition review at ten. I need to find my least-awful demo track.” She vanished in a flutter of panic.
Lisa finished up, her phone buzzing on the counter. A notification from a group chat—‘Choreo Squad’. A new message from Araya.
Hey Lisa, great teaching yesterday. A few of us are hitting the practice room at 3 to work on that isolation sequence. Want to join?
Lisa stared at the words. The old instinct flared—a quick excuse, a retreat to safe solitude with Rose.
But then she remembered the warmth of the blanket, the absolute conviction in Rose’s sleepy voice. You’re just you.
Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She took a breath, deep into her diaphragm, the way she did before a difficult routine.
She typed back: Sure. Room 4B is free then. See you there.
She put the phone down, her heart beating a quick, hopeful rhythm against her ribs. It was just a practice room. Just dance. It was a start.