Chapter 4: Dorm Room Truths
The walk back from the diner was cool, the city lights bleeding into the night sky. Laughter from Jisoo’s stories still buzzed in Lisa’s ears, mixing with the low thrum of leftover adrenaline. By the time they pushed open the door to their dorm, the bravado from the booth had begun to crystallize into something harder: a decision. She was going to the bar. She was going to see Araya at practice tomorrow. The thoughts looped, a dizzying rhythm.
“She’s good for you,” Rose declared, kicking off her shoes and flopping onto her patchwork quilt. The single lamp on her desk cast a wobbly circle of light. “Jisoo, I mean. She doesn’t tip-toe. It’s like… emotional sandblasting. In a good way.”
Lisa grunted, leaning against the closed door. The cozy, cluttered room smelled of Rose’s perfume and the faint, ever-present ghost of instant noodles. Safe. “She’s a lot.”
“You’re a lot. In, like, the opposite direction. It balances.” Rose sat up, eyes gleaming. “So. Araya.”
“What about her?”
“Don’t ‘what about her’ me. You got all… technical and sparkly-eyed talking about her footwork. It was nauseatingly cute.” Rose reached for the half-empty bottle of makgeolli on the desk, wiggling it. “Fortification for the debrief?”
Lisa should have said no. Her head was already full. But the milky liquor looked like courage, and the room felt like a confessional. She nodded, sliding down the door to sit on the floor. Rose joined her, their shoulders touching, and passed the bottle.
The makgeolli was sweet and slightly sour, settling warmly in Lisa’s stomach. She took a long swallow.
“It’s not just the footwork,” she said, the words coming out easier with the alcohol’s permission. “It’s… how she listens. When I corrected the timing on that spin sequence, she didn’t get defensive. She just said ‘show me.’ Like my opinion had weight.”
Rose nodded, taking the bottle back. “That’s baseline decent human behavior, Lis.”
“You’d be surprised.” The old bitterness, metallic and familiar, touched her tongue. She pushed it down. “And she’s… stupidly pretty. In a way that makes it hard to breathe sometimes. Not like a magazine. Like… like when you see a really flawless move, and your chest gets tight? Like that.”
“Oh.” Rose’s voice softened. “It’s like that.”
Silence stretched, comfortable. The bottle passed between them again, its contents dwindling. The alcohol blurred the sharp edges of the room, of Lisa’s thoughts. Her confidence, usually so carefully assembled, began to soften at the seams.
“I think about it, you know,” she mumbled, her head lolling against the door. “What it would be like. To… not have to explain. To just be. With someone.”
Rose didn’t pretend to misunderstand. She just waited, her presence a solid anchor.
“With her, in the studio, it’s just bodies moving. No history. No… anatomy. Just rhythm and sweat. I want…” Lisa’s throat closed. She took another swig, the liquor burning a path through the blockage. “I want the other stuff to feel that simple. But it never is. It’s a whole… conversation. A negotiation. Before anything even starts.”
Her vision swam a little. The crooked lampshade seemed to tilt. Rose gently pried the near-empty bottle from her fingers and set it aside.
“Come on,” Rose said, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning if you sleep in those jeans.”
Lisa allowed herself to be hauled up, her limbs feeling loose and heavy. She swayed, and Rose steadied her with a grip on her elbows. The casual, practiced intimacy of it made Lisa’s eyes sting. Rose unbuttoned her stiff jeans, tugging them down so Lisa could step out. She did the same with Lisa’s hoodie, leaving her in just a tank top and boxer briefs.
Standing there, exposed in the dim light, the usual wall of humor was too far to reach. The alcohol had dredged everything up.
“What if she’s repulsed?” The question was a whisper, ripped from a place deep and dark and seldom visited.
Rose didn’t flinch. She just folded the jeans neatly, placing them on the desk chair. “Then she’s an idiot. And not your idiot.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Isn’t it?” Rose turned, crossing her arms. “Look. Intimacy is weird for everyone. Bodies are weird. Yours is just… a different kind of weird. It doesn’t make the wanting less. Or the connection. If someone wants you, the whole package, that conversation you’re so scared of… it’s not a negotiation. It’s just discovery.”
Lisa stood, shivering slightly in the cool room. The words seeped in, slow as the makgeolli warmth. “Discovery,” she repeated, tasting the word.
“Yeah. Like… you’re a continent. With really good abs and a shitty past. Someone worth it will want to map the coastline, not just rent a beach.”
A choked laugh escaped Lisa. “That was terrible.”
“It was poetic,” Rose insisted, a smile in her voice. She nudged Lisa toward her own bed. “Now sleep. Tomorrow you have practice with your ‘stupidly pretty’ dance partner, and Friday we’re seeing a terrible band.”
Lisa collapsed onto the narrow mattress, the springs groaning. She stared at the ceiling, the buzz in her head slowly fading to a quiet hum. The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut. But around it, something else had taken root—a fragile, stubborn curiosity.
What would it be like, to let someone see the map?
Rose switched off the lamp, plunging the room into a soft darkness broken by the neon sign from the building across the street. Its pulsing red light bled through the blinds, painting stripes across the floor.
“Rose?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For… the emotional sandblasting.”
A quiet laugh from the other bed. “Any time. Now shut up. I’m dreaming about guitars.”
Lisa closed her eyes. In the dark, the phantom sensation of hands on her waist, guiding a spin. The echo of a laugh shared over terrible band predictions. The memory of a voice saying show me. They weren’t answers. They were just points of light in the dark, a faint, tentative constellation to steer by.