Work Text:
The lake is warm to the touch; the water’s supposed to be refreshing and cool, a nice reprieve after a particularly hot day, but it must’ve missed that memo.
It’s the weather, she supposes. The beating heat is searing, and the proof of it is in the way it bakes her skin — she’s turning into roast chicken by the minute. She’s a little busy being rendered blind, too; whenever she looks up, she’s forced to squint, and silently curses god for making this day so hot.
Despite her complaints, she finds she doesn’t mind all that much. In truth, it reminds Sophia a little of home. The contradiction — hot and cold, ice and heat, summer and winter, and... Manon and Sophia, because her thoughts, inevitably, loop back to one person.
She dips her toes into the water, then her calves, then her thighs, and it isn’t long before her entire body is immerged. There’s lakewater surrounding her now, and Sophia kicks her feet, letting some of it splash onto the wooden dock. The water’s swirling now, like a whirlpool, around and around and around — it’s enough to make her eyes ache, and she scrounges for something else to look at.
That’s when the problem comes in.
She calls it Wonderland.
She’s here, and yet, she’s not.
The lake doesn’t exist.
It all simply shatters into forbidden pieces.
It started in high school.
She’s in class, and her professor’s run out of markers.
“Sophia,” he calls, leaning back against his seat. “Do me a favor and grab me some markers, will you? They’ll be down in the storage closet. You know where it is.”
She blinks. “Uh —”
But he’s already shooing her off, so Sophia’s standing, pushing her chair back with an uncomfortably loud scrape.
That’s when she sees her.
A girl, emerging into existence from the curtain’s shadow.
The phenomenon: Sophia’s sixteen, and she’s young and dumb and naive, but she swears, with everything in her, that she’s never seen this girl in her entire life; despite that, her name flits into her head — Manon — as easy as breathing.
“Looking for something?” Manon asks, grin tugging onto her face.
When she looks past Manon, the hallway has changed — disappeared. She’s outside now, in a cavern of sorts, and Sophia distantly spots a lovely clump of flowers, sky-blue and golden yellow dotting the center.
A hand slings itself over her shoulder; she flinches, but Manon either doesn’t notice or care, instead saying, “Forget-me-nots.”
“Forget-me-nots?” Sophia repeats, nose scrunched in confusion.
Manon points to the scattered petals, and then at the flowers she’d been looking at. “They’re called forget-me-nots,” she eventually says, “because of a European legend. A knight who’d drowned after picking them for his love —” Manon twists, leaving them face-to-face. Her breath is warm, and reminds Sophia faintly of smoke. She instantly hates it; she instantly loves it. “— three guesses on what he’d cried out?”
“Uh,” is all Sophia can manage for a good second. “Forget me not?”
Manon pokes her cheek, nodding at the flowers. “You’re a superstar; you may forget me, but don’t forget that.”
“Thank…” Sophia halts mid-sentence.
She’d been somewhere else, for a moment — Sophia’s convinced of that. But there hadn’t been anyone else there, in whatever delusion her mind conjured up, so who could she possibly be thanking?
She shakes off the weirdness, heading to the storage closet.
It’s just another day.
Dream Academy happens.
Her debuting is a thing that happens too.
But, most importantly, she meets Manon, who’s so familiar yet so unfamiliar, like a relative that’s moved away, or a soulmate she’s secretly known her entire life, and it’s left Sophia faltering and confused every time she chances a glance her way.
It’d been easy to pretend she hated Manon — but now, when they’re in the same group, everything feels much more complicated.
“Manon, do you ever feel like you’ve gone through something before?”
“Like déjà vu?”
“No, like… you’ve lived a completely different life, but it’s just as real as this one.”
“Sophia, did you eat something weird again?”
“I'm being serious!”
“Hey, so am I! Remember that time you thought you had first show nerves, but you’d actually had food poisoning from that street food you’d downed hours before?”
“That was — okay, that’s wrong, because two things can be true at once! I felt sick from the food poisoning and from the fact that it was our first show. But no — this is — this is different.”
“... Is it though?”
Sophia’s gotten used to following the scent of cigarette smoke.
She’s not sniffing it out or anything; especially when it’s not a pleasant scent by any means. As a matter of fact, whenever it creeps up into her apartment, she makes sure to shut the windows because she’s not about to let Yoonchae or herself contract lung cancer or lose their sense of smell — or something just as bad.
But, thing is, she’ll take the stairs down anyway, tracking down the poisonous smell and winding up at the building’s back door. Lo and behold: Manon, leaning against the wall, puffing out dark gray plumes.
“That’s unhealthy,” Sophia points out — pointing it out is pointless, even as the insufferable demon on her shoulder grins at the little pun. It’s a warning she’s given numerous times before; she’s never usually this blunt, though, not when it’s easier to dance around it with wolf words wrapped in sheep clothes, like are you sure you wanna be doing this? or why don’t you drink water instead?
Manon shrugs, uncaring. “I’m aware. Anyway, do you happen to know what’s the whole ‘choreo change’ deal with Internet Girl? I saw the email, but I dunno, I was kind of lost and just figured, oh, maybe Sophia will —”
“You should stop.” At Manon’s questioning glance, she bites the bullet: “Smoking, I mean.”
Manon sighs — it’s, like, supremely tired; part of Sophia feels bad, but she thinks, perhaps a little bitingly, Manon should’ve expected this wouldn’t be going anywhere productive the minute she showed up smoking. “Why?” says Manon, a smirk dangling on her lips; the part of Sophia that felt bad flat-out crawls into a hole and dies. If the goal was pissing her off, Manon’s got full stars. Sophia’s just about ready to pounce, incite some real shock in Manon, for once, and wipe that stupid expression off her face. “Are you worried about me?”
Worried? Is Sophia worried? Standing before Sophia is someone who’s got to be the prettiest person in existence — she remembers their first meeting because she’d been the epitome of embarrassment, forced to blink and rub her eyes several times in an assurance that she wasn’t hallucinating; no matter how long she’d stared, the gorgeous girl, in all her gorgeous glory, hadn’t disappear: long, braided hair cascading down her shoulders, relaxed eyes that were so deep, Sophia could’ve drowned in them, and a pretty face with pretty clothes, and pretty pretty pretty — and she has the audacity to believe Sophia isn’t absolutely, devastatingly in love with her.
Fuck, of course she’s worried. She worries about Manon more than she worries about her, like, mom — and it’s not just her mom, but all her family back home, who fail to rank in comparison to Manon… which is something that brings forth a heaping box of misery she’s not quite ready to unpack.
“Yes,” Sophia says; if she’s going to be miserable, she’s going to be miserable and watch color rise in Manon’s cheeks. And, honestly, it’s not her fault. If she’s going to be this easily flustered, she shouldn’t be giving Sophia these easy opportunities. “Besides,” she adds, “I doubt smoke tastes good.”
“Oh?” Manon laughs, dropping the cigarette and snuffing the light with her boot. “Do you want to prove that?”
Sophia raises an eyebrow. “What do you… oh.”
Manon does taste like smoke — but a number of other things too, like, fuck, Sophia doesn’t know; home, a small, evil voice whispers, but that’s a mortifying thought, and she settles on: Manon tastes like smoke, but with quiet walks down the street, during winter nights.
The girls are all gathered up, one evening, in Manon and Dani’s apartment — despite there being three, it’s this one that’s somehow become the communal one. It’s in the middle, but it’s not really about the distance; it just feels right for the six of them to congregate here.
Sophia doesn’t make a habit of drinking, though largely because most alcohol she’s tried has tasted like paint thinner — no, Lara, the cheap soju they pass around at afterparties isn’t any better.
But, after piqued curiosity, and bad decisions, and a glance her way, she does know two things: that her alcohol tolerance still starts slipping by the fourth shot, and that being even just slightly tipsy lets her get away with many, many things she wouldn’t sober.
There’s four tell-tale shot glasses lined up on the coffee table, paired with an uncomfortable prickling of heat along the back of her neck, but she downs a fifth glass and leans back into the couch; Sophia’s discovered the utter uselessness of chasing, when the person she’d like to chase has a mind too stubborn to come to her out of anything that isn’t her own terms.
Time —
The clock chimes —
They’re in Manon’s bedroom now.
A frown slips onto Sophia’s face a moment before she lets the accusations begin: “You remember far more than you said you did, don't you? About that night.”
“How do you —” Manon flounders, a thief caught red-handed. “Uhhhhhhhhh.”
Sophia sighs. “Figured,” she says — though, Sophia hadn’t been completely sure or anything, and she really might have accepted that Manon had been too drunk to remember. That is, if Manon hadn’t started finding excuses to touch her ever since. A hand on her lower back during dance practice; fingers brushing hers when passing props; tucking Sophia’s hair behind her ear during photoshoots. “If you really wanted to avoid this, you could’ve at least tried a little harder.”
A smile at that. Then, cheekily, “I didn’t exactly want to avoid this.”
And then, she’s touching Sophia’s waist, and drunk Sophia becomes a careless Sophia, so she doesn’t even bother telling Manon to lock the door — just kisses her, hard and messy, and hopes that tiny bit of hatred imbedded deep in her spine is felt; or, at least, felt more than that large shard of love.
Then, it’s like —
Gone, gone, gone —
There is no KATSEYE — she’s in college, and Manon’s her best friend, and yes, that seems correct.
“You have to believe me this time,” she insists, tugging Manon along by the wrist — the skin-on-skin contact appears right, so she keeps on tugging, but it also makes her heart jump uncomfortably in her chest. She tries her best to ignore it; hearts can be an incredibly twitchy thing. “There were cryptic threats written on the wall! In blood! I’m serious!”
Sophia doesn’t quite remember this — it’s spilling out of her mouth like she’s locked in a bad horror movie script — but her unconsciousness believes it to be true, and her consciousness is easily swayed. Sophia continues, gasping, “I would’ve taken a photo but my phone was out of battery —”
“It sounds like a set for a bad horror movie,” Manon cuts in, yawning theatrically; yes, because Manon does theatre, swayed by Sophia, and neither of them are idols and — idols? Where did that come from? Sophia stares at Manon instead, watching as she grins and maneuvers their hands until their fingers are interlaced, proceeding to swing their arms together like a kid. It’s, like, cute, and this would be a killer addition to those edits their fans make of them. She watches those edits religiously, and honest-to-god prays to them too, like they are a religion. Except… edits? Why would they have edits? “Aw, Sophia, if you wanted to hold hands, you should’ve just said so.”
Her next line tumbles out more naturally this time. “I’m not lying! I really saw it!”
Sophia remembers now. She’d been sorting some equipment back into the storage room, finding old knick-knacks that might be useful for their upcoming show — theatre show, she emphasizes — and happened to wander further back than usual.
This was where the stuff that was rarely disturbed laid, because it was far too old and dusty to so much as see the labels of.
Then, all she’s thinking is: why didn’t she bring Manon?
Manon, of course, who liked to hang around in similar places because according to her, “It fits my aesthetic, Sophia!” … whatever that means.
She probably wouldn’t mess with much of the equipment in the back, Sophia imagines, instead settling on one of the old chairs and scrolling through her phone or practicing lyrics lines.
She’d steal a glance, because her eyes always go back to Manon, and find her looking at the same ones every time — old KATSEYE demos lines from the beginning of the play and —
Wait, when had her thoughts turned to Manon? In any case, Sophia had been snooping, and had noticed one box looking out of place on the shelf; upon checking it, as a good theatre citizen should, she realized it belonged in the back section.
She hated going there, because she always broke out into sneezing fits from all the dust and cobwebs — the cherry on top was that she swore it was haunted.
How could a place as creepy-looking as this storage room not be haunted, after all, even if it were just one, small section in the back? But Sophia’s convinced — she’d gone poking around in there a few times, curiosity piqued, and was gifted nothing but chills down her spine every time. Outside the chills, though, there was no real evidence that there were actual ghosts hanging around the place.
Still! She feels it in her gut — she thinks? she thinks? she thinks?
Plus, ever since Manon started frequenting the storage space (conveniently around the same time Sophia had begun to spend more time there; the no nonsense demon in her head: chalk it up to the show, chalk it up to the show, chalk it up to the), scoffing at her suspicions and telling her she needs to chill, Sophia’s felt an internal, ever-growing need to prove her ghost-theory right.
And now, succession has arrived — she’s finally seen something that might just be the concrete evidence she needed to convince Manon.
Except, and her head must be going through a serious crisis, when she ducks into the aisle that had previously held the bloody wall-writing, there are none of the blood splatters, nor dismembered body parts Sophia swore she’d seen. Instead, written in flowery handwriting, is the words, “ur as cute as a button :3.”
Is this schizophrenia?
“Whoa,” Manon singsongs, hand covering her mouth, “soooo spooky! Really got me there. Sophia, isn’t this just, like, red Sharpie?”
“I…” Sophia splutters, helplessly confused.
A hand finds her cheek, patting it. Mocking consolation, real funny; Sophia glares. The hand pats her cheek again. Sophia bites — the hand, and the one it’s attached to, Manon, silently steps back.
“Don’t worry, we all make mistakes.” Manon moves to stand in front of Sophia, smiling cheekily all the while. “Well, except for me, of course! I’d already start calling myself the greatest actress in the world, but I might need to wait a few years for that.”
Sophia blinks. What — What — What — Uhhhhhhh — “Actress? You’re an idol.”
Something odd flickers in Manon’s eyes, at the mention of her being an idol — Sophia can’t exactly pinpoint what it is, but she thinks it compares to how an old black-and-white film glitches into fuzzy static for a second before returning to normal; like, an error in the system. Beep-boop, grounds for failure, please reset.
“Oh, whatever,” Manon says. Belatedly, Sophia realizes she’s still holding her hand, and that Manon’s skin is freezing cold. Has it always been this cold? Her stomach caves, and images flash, images of hand to hand, and hand to chin, and hand to we’ve been talking for hours, and I know your greatest fear is letting someone, and — ugh, what did she eat for breakfast this morning? A chipotle bowl? There’s no other explanation for it. “You’re an idol, too, then. But, a secret, from me to you — Sophia, you’re the greatest performer in the world, aren’t you?”
Sophia flushes. “What?” One thing is true, and that’s Sophia taking performing very seriously. Even if she doesn't quite remember ever performing in the acting world. But… the greatest? From Manon?
“So, together, we must be the greatest couple in the world,” Manon continues, brown eyes crinkling from her grin. “Or we would be, if you weren’t so set on this nonexistent ghost of yours.”
“He exists,” Sophia whines, pouting.
“Hey,” she chides. She squishes Sophia’s face with her palm, crafting a smile. “Turn that frown upside down!” Then Manon’s staring in the distance, blankly; a beat, before she’s back on Sophia beaming, saying, “Also, how are you so sure it’s a he? What if it’s a she? Or a they, huh? Or maybe it’s an animal. Don't be so discriminatory.”
Sophia massages her forehead. “I just have a feeling it’s a he. But it doesn’t matter if it’s a she or a they or an it. As long as there’s a ghost at all, I’d be right.”
“Whatever you say.” Manon shrugs, spinning in a circle; weirdo, Sophia thinks. Then, tragically: weirdo I’m in love with. “Hey, do you have any other song recommendations? I’m bored, and I can’t find any good stuff on my playlist anymore.”
“You could check other playlists?”
“I mean, yeah, but they’re boring, too. I want your music.”
Sophia chances a look at the wall again, even as Manon’s looping their arms together and tugging her out of the room — the words are gone, and the wall is perfectly clean.
Distantly, a laugh rings through.
It sounds like Manon — it sounds like nothing at all.
She’s waking up, hair askew and breath no doubt stinky. Deep exhale in, heavy sigh out.
Distantly, Sophia fumbles for her phone and goes to text, well — Manon. Who else?
do you have your lines down for the show?
hey babe
what happened to hi, hello, how are you
hi, hello, how are you?
great now that u’re here 😛
weirdo..
lines ? down ? yes or no ?
for tour?
our production, silly
sophia… what production???
Sophia’s blinking in confusion, before shooting out a reply.
the theatre show?
babe
we’re idols
someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed
Suddenly, it’s like —
Oh —
Wait, yeah, KATSEYE, upcoming tour, imminent Internet Girl release —
They aren’t in theatre; they aren’t even in college, and —
Fuck.
She isn’t a college student.
Things happen, and so does dropping out to be a barista.
The unfortunate truth of the matter: Sophia may have pronouns, but she decidedly does not have blue hair, and that makes her a less-than-perfect barista.
This has led to a very upset customer. Well. Isn’t sorry enough, these days?
“I said,” Manon huffs, “I wanted three shots of espresso. This is only one!”
This is going to be a long day, is all Sophia can think, as she calmly hands the next customer their ordered cappuccino. She doesn’t bother looking at Manon — Sophia vaguely registers that, perhaps, she shouldn’t be aware of this random, strange customer’s name — when she speaks. “I’m so sorry. The thing is, I’d rather not have deal with someone collapsing from a caffeine overdose. Made the decision I thought would save you a visit to the hospital.”
Another thing vaguely registers — why would she care so much about a random, strange customer's caffeine consumption?
Manon’s gone strangely rigid. “You thought I’d collapse from too much caffeine?”
“You look like you would.”
Manon stares at her in pure disbelief. She tries her hardest not to chuckle, finding that the expression on her face is even funnier than anticipated; it becomes a mantra, to not laugh, do not do it Sophia, and she considers clasping her hands and throwing in a few solemn prayers. “This is —” She visibly fumbles for words, throwing her hands up in distress. “— blatant disrespect!”
“On the contrary,” Sophia counters, “I’m just looking out for your well-being.”
“I’m going to keep coming back here,” Manon says, slowly, like she’s threatening Sophia right now, like her coming back over, and over, and over doesn’t sound straight from one of Sophia’s wildest dreams. “until you get me three shots. Seriously, who do you think I am? I won’t keel —” Manon says keel? is the next thought that bubbles over; then, who is Manon? “— over and die if I drink too much coffee.”
“Coffee can be bad for you,” hisses Sophia, “I’m educating the populace.”
“The populace is not one, singular person. I meant what I said. I’m haunting you.”
A smile slips on her face. It’s easy to find amusement in how irritated Manon’s becoming; she’s starting to understand how a cat must feel when it plays with a mouse. “I’ll look forward to it, thanks. Will you take your drink, or would you like to come back here and make it yourself?”
Manon glares at her with undisguised loathing, but Sophia’s smile only grows.
Perfectly amicable, because she’s nothing if not a stellar barista (minus the coffee-making skills).
Manon takes a sip from the cup, a frown spreading across her face. “I’ll take it.”
“Hope to see you again,” Sophia calls as she stomps out the shop. She’s pleasantly surprised to find out she means her words... but... surprised? Why would she be surprised? Why wouldn’t she want to see her again?
It’s Manon.
Those two words next to each other, “it’s” and “Manon”, feel like they have oh-so much untapped meaning.
It’s like —
She’s going insane.
There’s no other explanation for it.
They’re in high school, seniors in high school, and she just can’t wait for college — Sophia and her best friend, Manon, already have plans to attend the same one.
“Sophia!” Manon grins. “Tough luck. That was the third time. I win, you lose.”
“What? No. That’s not true. Fuck.” Sophia wails; she’s contemplating amping up the dramatics to get the tide to turn on her side but it’s too little, too late, for Manon has already grabbed the rest of the cookies they’d bet on and stuffed them securely into her own container. “No way… this isn’t fair. How did you notice? I thought I was so sneaky.”
And, in all fairness, she had been sneaky. She’s pretty convinced Manon hadn’t actually seen her snatch the cookie up and eat it — messy eater syndrome is a disease Sophia has contracted, and the crumbly remains of the cookie dotting the corners of her lip are the proof of the pudding.
Manon proves her hypothesis correct: “This, silly,” says Manon, reaching up to swipe at the mess with her thumb. Sophia feels her face go scarlet; she’s convinced Manon purposely lets her hand linger on her face a second longer than necessary before pulling away, just to see her flustered.
“You know, at this rate, you’re never gonna win.”
“Um… er…” Sophia clears her throat and pats around her mouth herself, though there are hardly any crumbs left to clean — Manon’s already cleaned it all away. Nearly killed her in the process too. “Alright, alright, one more time. Let me try it with the —” Sophia squints at the array of snacks they brought together today. “— donuts.”
Manon bursts into laughter. Sophia instantly feels stupid. She thinks it: stupid. “Seriously? Those are, like, way harder to eat without me noticing.”
“Just wait. I’ll prove you wrong.”
“You just wanna eat them now,” Manon says, accusingly; still, she indulges Sophia — forever indulging, forever giving — by way of opening the box. Sophia’s salivating near immediately. “Wow, you’re like a dog. Want me to pet you on the head if you win?”
Sophia’s eyes flare with newfound determination — sue her, Manon had soft hands. “You’re on.”
She knows she’s as unsubtle as unsubtle can be. Manon knows this too, probably, but only smiles, turning slightly away and looking at her phone.
Maybe… someday, if they’re still groupmates, she’ll tell Manon.
But — groupmates? What? They’re best friends. And by the end of high school, by graduation, If Sophia still feels the same then, feelings unwavering even if KATSEYE disbands even if they end up at different colleges, Sophia will tell her.
That sounds like a reachable deadline, right?
Manon turns around and catches her mid-bite. “Hand it over.”
Sophia chomps a piece off before miserably giving Manon the rest of the donut.
When she wakes, she finds donut stains on her couch, paired with her drool — must’ve fallen asleep while eating a sweet treat, Sophia supposes.
She’s… not sure what she is.
What she is sure of: there’s someone with her.
Sophia can’t see them, whoever they may be — the darkness is absolute and suffocating, and there’s barely a difference whether she opens or closes her eyes.
Despite that, she can feel someone else in the room, by the way the air shifts to accommodate another set of lungs. It’s odd, that she can sense that somehow, and she thinks it’s weird, because she’s human, but — she just can.
Then a cold — freezing, static, Manon — hand lands on her wrist, and she can’t stop the humiliating squeak that escapes her mouth.
Someone laughs — her voice is as clear and clarion as wind chimes in summer. She’s connected to the hand wrapped around her wrist. “Why are you so nervous?” she asks. “You’re here for a reason, aren’t you?”
A reason?
“Who are you?” Sophia manages, voice shaky; she can’t bring herself to care.
A pause, and then: “What’s your name?”
“Um,” says Sophia, blanking; she wracks her brain, name name name, before settling on, “Sophia Laforteza.”
“Okay. Call me Manon.” One brilliant smile later, fingers are closing around her wrist again, and tugging Sophia over to — ow, did she just stub her pinky toe on some equipment, no, she isn’t a theatre major, she’s nothing, God damn it all — a couch laden down with the softest of blankets. “I can’t just go around giving my true name to everyone. You know.”
“Er?” Sophia blinks in confusion. “How come?”
“It’s dangerous,” she says. The duh rings out silently, before she goes: “Obviously.” Her hands keep pushing, until Sophia’s down on the couch, lying there on her back.
A weight settles atop her torso — it’s a person, and although Sophia can’t see a thing, she can feel legs folded on either side of her midsection. “So, Sophia. Surely you know what you’re here for.”
Sophia tries not to freeze too; fails, because her hands are shaking again, even more so than during their first evaluation something. Is this it? Is this really happening? Gods, what had she done to deserve this? “I don’t wanna die,” is what blurts out.
Something shifts in the air again — how can she feel that? — and then her cheeks are being cupped, Manon’s palms cold as ice against her warm face. Check — chin — lift — like a time lapse, time lapse, time lapse, with you. “Hey, hey, you’re gonna be fine. Let me guess, you thought I was just messing around with you, right? Do I look like I’m joking?”
She’s suddenly right in Sophia’s eye frame; it’s a little hard to breathe.
Sophia worries on her lower lip, and eventually mumbles, “No.”
“See.” Manon smiles, brushing a loose strand of Sophia’s hair back; and, like, fuck does she full-on shiver. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Unless you weren’t worried about that part, and more about the virgin part?”
Her brain promptly shortcircuits.
“I — I’m — that is — I have —”
Another tinkling laugh, and Sophia knows she’s only known this Manon for all of five minutes, except — has it only been five minutes? Is that really true? It doesn’t matter; she thinks people could fall in love with Manon through that laugh alone.
“It’s okay. You’re fine. In more ways than one.” Soft lips meet her forehead in a feather-light kiss — Sophia doesn’t even get to appreciate how the brief contact makes her tingly all over, outside of a quick fuuuuuuuuuck she embarrassingly whines out. And then it’s gone, quick as a butterfly’s wings. “I’ll be nice, Sophia. We’ll get to the kinky stuff once you get sex education. Like, learning how to use lube.”
“Manon,” Sophia sighs. “I know how to use lube.”
“Really?” The air heats up; Sophia spots a hint of sharp brown eyes and an even sharper grin, and she’s gone before Manon bothers saying, “Then show me.”
It’s easy to find Manon’s neck — soft, supple skin that feels like it’s exactly where her lips are meant to be latched.
“Hey, Manon, do I give off virgin vibes to you?”
“Uh, is this, like, a test? Will I get booted from KATSEYE if I answer wrong?”
“So you do think I give virgin!”
“Woah — listen, Sophia, babe — I never once said that.”
“Yes you did.”
“Don’t think I did. You sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?”
“Ah — sorry, I guess. My head’s a little messed-up right now.”
“You gonna be good for tonight?”
“With you? Always.”
“Oh, and Sophia?”
“Yeah?”
“To me, at least — you don’t give ‘virgin’ in the slightest. You’re way too hot for that.”
She is back in high school, and today is the day.
"Wow," Yoonchae, her bandmate sister, says, giving Sophia a long stare before fishing for her phone, “did you win the lottery?”
“I didn’t,” Sophia denies. She’s excited, but it — it’s for a reason. And, anyway, this excitement has simply manifested as a swarm of butterflies, floating and flying in her stomach; if the butterflies make her stomach ache and her face break out in sweat, then that’s nobody’s business but her own.
There’s technically another word for it: nervous.
She’s nervous.
Because today’s the day, she’s decided — the day she’ll confess to Manon.
Yoonchae simply stares at her before throwing out, “Okay, weirdo…”
Maybe, but she’s a weirdo that’s grown a spine.
Then:
Manon grins up at her. “Did you know,” she’s saying, conspiratorially, kicking her feet at rocks; it goes in one ear and out the other, because Sophia’s a little too stuck on the pit growing in her stomach.
Because.
Is she truly doing this? Risking everything they are? For some stupid crush?
But — no. Because it’s not just a crush; it’s Sophia thinking, breathing, and living, in all that is Manon.
It’s her brain, wired with the same questions:
- Where is Manon?
- How is Manon?
- Manon? Manon? Is Manon here? Does Manon have something to do with this? Was Manon relevant to this conversation or should Sophia just mentally check out?
“Manon, I like you,” is what tumbles out of her mouth; a wince follows, because it’s nothing like she practiced, sounding so awkward, filled with stumbles and voice cracks and —
It doesn’t matter.
Everything turns staticky.
All that’s left is the haunting shadow of Manon’s smile.
Sophia downloads Reddit because, in times of desperation, watching her fellow humans sink to the lowest of lows somehow brings hope to her backyard.
It goes like this:
r/advice, u/wanderingleaf
so, let’s just get into it: am i losing my mind or does everyone experience multiple realities at once and we just don’t talk about it?
hi everyone! this is going to sound insane but I need to know if this happens to anyone else or if I need to check myself into a hospital.
for context: I’m 23, I’m in a pretty high-profile job (can’t say what for privacy reasons but let’s just say I’m in the public eye), and… for awhile now, i’ve been experiencing these episodes? shifts? I don’t really know what to call them.
I’ll be living my normal life, working my job or helping my, um, roommates, and then suddenly I’m somewhere completely different. and it’s not like I simply blacked out and woke up somewhere else. I mean I have full memories of an entirely different life. like I'll “wake up” and I’m a barista, and I have memories of going to barista training, of my regular customers, of the apartment I live in as a barista.
the weird part is that there’s always this one person who shows up in every single version. at first, I’d vaguely recall a presence — now, every time, all I remember is her. let’s call her M. in some versions we're friends. in some versions we're dating. in one version we literally hated each other (or I hated her? it was complicated idk). In one version we were ancient deities???
sometimes the shifts last for hours, sometimes they’re just flashes — I’ll be doing something normal and then BOOM! having a conversation that doesn’t match the real world. and then I snap back and I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.
the memories bleed over. but it’s just me, because I’ll reference something that happened in a different reality and M will look at me like I’m crazy.
but here’s the thing — sometimes, she says stuff that makes me think she feels it too. she’ll make a reference to something that only happened in a different version; she’ll touch me in a way that’s too muscle memory to be the first time.
My working theories:
- I’m having some kind of psychotic break and need professional help immediately
- I’m experiencing memories from alternate timelines/parallel universes
- I died at some point and I’m actually living through multiple afterlives simultaneously
- This is all a simulation and it’s glitching
the episodes are getting more frequent. I don't know which reality is the “real” one anymore. the one I’m in right now, as I type this, feels like the real one — but I’ve thought that before and then suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely.
has anyone else experienced anything like this? tried googling, but all I get is stuff about lucid dreaming or dissociation. it’s WRONG. the other lives feel as real as this one. I can feel the smoke smell on M's jacket. I can remember the exact layout of our college campus.
not on any medications. not doing drugs. sure, I’m stressed, but no more than usual. I sleep fine (when I can tell the difference between sleeping and shifting). also, don’t have any family history of schizophrenia or anything
should I see a doctor? a therapist? a priest? genuinely asking, starting to lose track of which memories are from this life and which are from the others
question — for the multiverse crowd — why is M always there? is she experiencing this too? is she some kind of cosmic constant? are we connected somehow?
anyway, please tell me I’m not the only one or at least point me toward whatever kind of specialist deals with this shit.
TLDR: I keep living multiple different lives simultaneously, the same person appears in all of them, I can't tell what’s real anymore; am I dying?
EDIT: to everyone saying “girl get help” — FROWNY FACE!!!!!!!!!!! yeah I know. i’m just trying to figure out what kind of help, thanks
She’s an adult; not much accomplished, she’ll admit, but she has —
Manon.
The thing about Manon, Sophia idly reflects, is that while she is undeniably brilliant (high praise coming from Sophia, also known as the group’s leader supreme lord, by Manon herself), she is also undeniably an idiot.
First: she keeps smoking, even though Sophia’s told her a million times it’s bad for her voice. That’s something Sophia is more than willing to let go, though, mostly because Manon is Swiss and Swiss people are known to be generally stubborn about their habits — or, at least, she thinks so. Manon’s the first Swiss she’s truly ever been friends with.
The real first: Manon thinks it’s acceptable to walk out of the shower in nothing but a loose top, short — like, leaving nothing for imagination short — shorts, and with her hair still dripping wet and curling at the edges to frame her long neck, like she truly believes Sophia isn’t going to freak out.
“Is something wrong?” the idiot herself says, tugging at the collar of her tank top until it slips and reveals — oh god, she’s too weak for this — a delicious hint of her collarbone. “Oh, did you want snacks? They’re in the kitchen, let me just —”
“I’ll get it!” Sophia announces; it shocks Manon long enough for Sophia to dart into the kitchen and gives Sophia a much needed second to mentally compose herself in front of the bag of chips.
Everything is fine, she tells herself. You are not actually freaking out. You are not weird for talking to a bag of chips, either. You were just caught off-guard because Manon is undeniably beautiful. That is expected — she’s a visual. You are not freaking out. And you are definitely not horny either. Celibacy rules, sex drools.
But because her luck’s on a losing streak, when she’s finally cooled her face down (and subsequently stuffed said face with three handfuls of chips; it helps with her nerves, okay?) enough to walk back to the living room, looking forward to collapsing on Manon’s couch for the better half of the afternoon, Sophia’s greeted with the sight of Manon unbuttoning her top.
“Jesus Christ!” Sophia says. Says, not yelps. She emphasizes it — says. “I mean, uh, Manon… what are you, uh, doing?”
Manon blinks innocently, beads of water running down her chest from that earlier shower — like her mind could forget; she’d been imagining herself in the shower with Manon the entire time — and disappearing further down.
One thought: Sophia wants to wreck her. Desperately wants to wreck her. She’s half-ready to forgo all pretense and simply stick her fingers inside Manon, but it’s like — what are they? As a matter of fact, who is she? Idol doesn’t seem right. Barista? No. College student, high school student, it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.
“Changing?” says Manon, hands continuing to move down her shirt, revealing more and more skin for Sophia’s eyes and Sophia’s eyes only, by the minute. “I had to take a quick shower but forgot this top stinks. I wore it two days ago. I keep forgetting to do the laundry.”
“Oh,” Sophia says. “Right. Of course.”
Manon tilts her head a little in confusion; this, of course, gives Sophia a better view of her long neck, and those collarbones sharp enough to cut a man, and those shoulders that she’d love to — errrrr, ahem. Sorry. Etiquette, Sophia thinks. “Are you…?” Realization seems to dawn on Manon, because a devious little smile springs onto her lips. “Are you perhaps embarrassed, Sophia?”
“What? No,” Sophia huffs, crossing her arms. “I don’t get embarrassed. Especially not over skin. It’s just — just not used to a lot of skin. Are all you Swiss this shameless? Honestly.”
“I’ll turn around if it makes you so embarrassed,” says Manon, cheerful, ignoring Sophia’s sputtered protests, and spins before shrugging off her top in one, clean swoop.
Somehow this is even worse, because Manon’s shoulder blades look perfect for Sophia to drag her fingers down; her nails could make a wonderful art portfolio of Manon’s back, she thinks, a tad delirious. She’s hastily shutting down that train of thought before it can get any worse.
Manon twists, craning her neck just enough for her eyes to blink at Sophia. “What?”
“What?” Sophia asks back. If her throat feels a little dry, then that’s nobody’s business but her own.
“You’re staring,” Manon says, smiling again. Sophia is weak; she wants to kiss the adorable curve of her lips. “Have you really never seen other people shirtless before?”
Sophia pouts and pointedly turns away. “It’s just sort of, like, unexpected. I thought you’d be a little shyer about showing off your body to just anyone,” she says, fully aware she’s beating the same dead horse.
“You're wrong.”
Sophia’s head snaps to look back at Manon at the word wrong leaving her mouth. “Uh... repeat?”
“You're wrong,” Manon dutifully recites, a teasing grin growing when she sits next to Sophia on the couch. Sophia attempts to scoot further away, because she can only hold herself back from so much of Manon’s damp, gorgeous skin, but Manon — devil’s advocate, that one — simply leans closer until her arm is touching Sophia’s. “I don’t show off my body to just anyone,” she says, hot breath ghosting over Sophia’s neck.
“Oh,” Sophia says. Says, not… alright, fine, she definitely sort of croaks. “Is that so?”
“This is sort of unexpected,” Manon remarks, teasing demeanor turning into something that’s a little softer — again, for her and her only. “I thought you’d be smart enough to jump me as soon as I started stripping, but here you are.”
And boom.
She kisses her.
The thing about Manon, Sophia idly reflects, after she’s jumped her bones, is that she’s undeniably brilliant in a multitude of ways, which is downright unfair — not that Sophia’s about to complain, though.
A little over two years into KATSEYE, Sophia’s gotten quite used to the strangeness of it all.
Most especially, the strangeness of her (and Yoonchae’s) apartment — doors randomly slam, sometimes, and Sophia’ll sleep on the couch and —
Well — on that note, it’s less of a strangeness of the apartment and a strangeness within her.
She’d woken up, one day, convinced Manon was her roommate, and that they, of all people, were dating.
Crazy, isn’t it? What a wandering mind can conjure?
I am Sophia Laforteza, she thinks, and she thinks and she thinks, and I am twenty-three years old, she knows, and she knows, and she knows — except, no; it isn’t correct.
She’s Sophia to her mother, but Persephone to the world.
She is the daughter of a Goddess — a Goddess in her own right — and she’s been living in this world for thousands of years.
It doesn’t matter, twenty-three or a thousand, because her mother, Carla, Demeter, will still squeeze her cheeks, like she’s a child that’s stealing cookies for sport, and say, “Be safe.”
Being safe certainly didn’t mean ending up in the Underworld, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Cerberus, firstly, is the most adorable puppy she’s had the pleasure of meeting.
Something about it is, like, messing with her head, though. Dog? Is she — Sophia, no, Persephone — a dog person? There was a cat… there was… there is… Yoonchae? There’s KATSEYE NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING.
Cerberus nuzzles her cheek, despite having ten inches of height on her. “Oh, good boy, Cerberus. You are such a good boy, aren’t you?”
“Hey,” Manon Hades yells. “You’re not dead.”
Sophia turns. She smells like corpses — except, there’s this tang of smoke too, but she’s never heard of a myth that indicates that Hades likes a good cigarette. If she’d known, she would’ve brought a pack; but, then again, Sophia’s always had a distaste for those who smoke. “Oh, hello,” she says, amicable and pleasant. “I suppose I’m not.”
“I would suggest you speak kinder to the God of this place,” she snips, frown carving into her face.
“My apologies,” Sophia says; she’s hiding a laugh, and it’s probably very clear, but for the sake of good relations with the God of the Underworld, she chooses to bow. “It’s so dreary here. Have you ever thought of adding any color?”
“Color,” Manon repeats, gawking. “Just who do you think you are?”
Sophia frowns. “I’m Sophia —” except, it doesn’t come out like that. The movie script: “I’m Persephone, Goddess of springtime.”
But.
But.
But…
It doesn’t feel right.
Nothing is feeling right these days.
Poké Puffs… Sophia checks the little box on her quickly and poorly scribbled list. Ketchup is next. There’s a reason behind her madness: she’s been nursing this Pikachu a newbie — a far too confident one — trainer had stumbled upon when traversing Route 9 for the last couple of days.
The Pikachu, Picky, had come in injured, hostile — the nasty bite left on Sophia's calf told the whole story, really. While she’s sure its newly assigned trainer has, or at least would have, chosen a much kinder name, Picky was the one Sophia deemed worthy, since it won’t eat anything bar ketchup.
She sidesteps a few people, clashing shoulders with them and muttering apologies she doesn’t truly mean. Still, she makes sure to lean down and pet some of their Pokémon; hey, don't judge — these furry little creatures can be cute when they’re not annoying the living hell out of her.
She walks a few more feet before reaching the condiment aisle, except… there’s a girl.
She’s so shiny; Sophia instantly knows who it is.
Manon.
The world tumbles.
WHO IS SHE?
WHERE IS SHE?
WHAT IS SHE?
She’s at a New Year’s Eve party — Sophia doesn’t remember getting here, though, and she’s wearing a dress she doesn’t think she owns.
“Sophia,” Manon says, pushing through the crowd, hair disheveled and coat loose. People part for her — like this moment has been written into the script of the universe itself. “I have to tell you something.”
“Manon?” Sophia gasps, fanning herself; it feels too dramatic, too unlike her. A robot controlled by a higher-up being. “What are you —”
“I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Manon reaches out, taking her hand —
It’s cold —
The line, Harry met Sally, but, no, this isn’t a movie, this is supposed to be life —
One thing is clear: she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Scratch that; two things are clear, and that is 1) she doesn’t know who she is anymore and 2) she knows who Manon is.
Every blip, every blurb — she’s there.
Manon.
Manon.
Manon.
Home.
Is there a difference?
She is Sophia Laforteza — leader of KATSEYE, twenty-three-years-old, and she exists.
She’s on stage; they’re on the latter leg of their tour.
And I know your greatest fear
Sophia’s fingertips find Manon’s jaw, and it’s oh-so easy to trace the sharp line of it as she sings.
It’s her line.
It’s their — KATSEYE’s, but she’d like it to be Manon’s and hers — song, and it makes Sophia feel light and fluffy, parallel to her around Manon, so it’s only right to have her palm caress the smooth surface of Manon’s chin.
It’s the softest thing she’s ever felt, and she’s already mourning the loss of contact, because Manon will probably pull away; for better or worse, she doesn’t.
Letting someone in too near
Her thumb brushes the corner of Manon’s mouth, and Sophia wonders if she can feel how her hand is trembling, if she knows how terrifyingly real this is for both of them.
If she even realizes that Sophia’s been waiting for this moment since, well, longer than she’d like to admit.
Manon’s eyes are half-lidded, dark and unreadable in the dim light, but she hasn’t moved — she’s enjoying this dance they do too.
But open up your heart to me
The last note hangs in the air between them, and Sophia’s gaze drops to Manon’s lips.
Kissing her would be like breathing, Sophia imagines.
Sophia thinks she knows — smoke, smoke, winter nights, corpses.
That’s the thing: there’s so many memories, but so little time.
The shifting worlds never leave her mind.
It’s not just shifting worlds — it’s worlds where Manon felt the same.
She’s holding a knife, Sophia registers, distantly.
Bottles of beer are messily cast around her room, and the smell is the exact thing she’d reprimand Manon for — except, it’d be cigarettes, except, she’s not sure if that’s real… except, except, except.
It’s bad, Sophia thinks, if Yoonchae were to smell all this.
She lets the knife kiss her chest anyway.
It’s 2 in the morning, and everything — getting up, being herself, pretending she’s happy with the way things are — these days is so fucking hard, but the one thing she finds easy is doomscrolling.
It is, by all definitions, doomscrolling; it’s not a social media website or anything, like twitter, that she’s shuffling through, though. It’s an album in her photos, entitled <3, and it’s got picture after picture of them.
It’s pictures Sophia’s taken, or that Manon’s taken, or that her members have taken — even paparazzi photos, because she’s not very picky when it comes down to it.
Her phone buzzes.
She swipes; she’s busy.
Her phone buzzes again.
And —
It’s her mom.
Sophia, there’s this boy… blah blah blah she can’t read she can’t read she can’t… and i think you two would be the right fit. For our family
This isn’t the first time.
It must be another reality — deep down she knows.
She replies how it’s expected of her:
of course! date and time and im there :)
Sophia’s a tried-and-true righty, so she’s typing with her right hand — which, duh.
Her left one’s doing something else entirely.
Her left hand grabs a filled capsule of pills — some prescription; she can’t even remember what it’s for — and silently uncaps it, letting the entirety of it spill into her mouth.