A few hours.

We've only been in Montreal for a few hours, but it already feels like the city's swallowed us whole. The underground complex stretches like a maze beneath the streets, warm and polished, the air smelling faintly of perfume and escalator grease. After a cramped flight filled with TikToks, droopy heads, and Tamara loudly rating airplane snacks, we're technically still tired—but no one's acting like it. Everyone's loud. Laughing. Overcompensating for jetlag with caffeine and chaos.

Except Haeri. And me. And Taeho, though he keeps pretending he's not.

Les Cours Mont-Royal is the first stop, and it's... too elegant for this group. Glass railings gleam like they've never seen a fingerprint in their life. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling in soft tiers of crystal, casting a golden haze on the polished stone floors. The stores here scream luxury. Half of us walk in like we belong. The other half—me included—pretend to.

Well...I did belong in this class of society. Used to. Until I decided I don't want to.

Haeri and Yegi wander toward a boutique with sleek winter coats lining the windows—Mackage, I think. Mannequins stand like statues in full-length wool coats and faux-fur collars, as if they run boardrooms and empires. Yegi gasps and loops her arm around Haeri's, dragging her in.

I trail behind the group, not talking much. Neither is Taeho. He keeps checking his phone like he's looking for an excuse not to be here. I don't blame him.

The coat store smells like soft leather and those overpriced candles with names that sound like indie albums. Everyone tries something on, even if they don't mean to buy. Yegi pulls a fuzzy beige coat over her shoulders and dramatically flips her hair like she's in a fashion show.

"You look like a rich raccoon," Chloe deadpans from across the boutique.

Yegi gasps like she's been stabbed. "How dare you. This is haute couture raccoon."

Everyone laughs. Even Haeri. Even Taeho—barely. I don't, but I almost do. I pretend to scroll through my phone.

Someone tosses me a puffer jacket. "Your turn, maknae," Tamara calls.

"No thanks." I toss it back. "I already know I look good."

Yegi fake-gags. "That's the confidence I need every morning."

The group takes turns posing in the mirror. Chloe models a long black coat with sharp shoulders like she's about to walk a Paris runway. Tamara keeps photobombing her with ridiculous faces. Yegi snaps pics of the chandeliers and the mirrored walls, mostly pretending to capture "aesthetic shots," but I see how her phone lingers on Haeri when she isn't paying attention.

Haeri, meanwhile, studies a coat but doesn't try it on. Her fingers smooth the fabric, thumb grazing the price tag, before she lets it fall back into place. She moves to the window to take a picture of the spiral staircase outside.

She smiles, but her eyes are scanning the hall again. Like she isn't quite there.

I don't think anyone else notices it.

Returning to the hallway, Tamara lets out an "Ooooh!" and tugs Chloe in the opposite direction, toward a skincare shop. The glowing lights of Sephora reflect in the glass, rows of creams and serums lined up like colorful little trophies.

We drift. Regroup. Drift again. Everyone moves like it's a slow tide—pairing off, bumping back into each other, peeling away again. I walk a few steps behind most of the time. Not because I want to, exactly. I just don't know where else I fit.

--++*++--

The waterfall wall looks like something out of a high-end sci-fi movie. A massive sheet of glass stretches from floor to ceiling, cold water cascading down the surface like a moving mirror. The lights behind it shift slowly—pale blue, lavender, soft gold—giving the whole thing a dreamy, otherworldly glow. The air smells faintly chlorinated, like an indoor pool without the pool.

Of course, the girls squeal and flock toward it like magpies.

"Group photo!" Yegi announces, already posing like she's on a red carpet. "C'mon! Everyone in!"

Phones come out. Coats get thrown into random laps. Haeri hangs back again, fiddling with her phone like she's texting someone, but she glances up when the rest of us crowd together.

The first photo's awkward—someone's blinking, someone's halfway sneezing—but it doesn't matter. They keep taking more. Then the individual photos start. Poses. Twirls. Laughing spins in front of the falling water. Yegi grabs Chloe's hand and they try to reenact some trending Instagram dance while Tamara directs like a fashion photographer. "No, wait—Haeri, hold the camera higher. Higher. Okay now—yes, you slay. You slay so hard."

I hang back, next to Taeho, who has his hands in his pockets and the most exhausted look on his face.

"They do this every trip," he mutters, shaking his head like this isn't his third time putting up with it.

I smirk. "And we still follow them like bodyguards. Or, like... coat racks."

"Exactly. Walking luggage racks." He huffs a laugh, then nudges me. "Speaking of luggage. You still trying to impress your favorite introvert?"

I roll my eyes. "You were literally supposed to help."

"I am helping," he says. "This is what help looks like—being the wise hyung who roasts you into action."

I open my mouth to respond but don't get the chance—he checks his phone and steps away.

"Washrooms. Meet you guys at the Eaton food court?" he says over his shoulder.

I nod, then wander to one of the benches nearby—black metal with a curved seat and a too-straight back. I sit, elbow propped on my knee, watching the lights flicker behind the waterfall wall while people pass by. It's noisy again, the sounds bouncing off marble and glass, but in that strange way malls feel noisy and still at the same time.

Yegi appears in an oversized coat and chunky white sneakers that somehow make her legs look longer, plopping down next to me with a dramatic sigh, hands full of bags and half-zipped purses.

"Hold these," she says, not waiting for a yes before dumping a pile of handbags and folded jackets into my arms. She pulls a small mirror out of one of the bags and starts dabbing at her lips.

I grunt under the weight. "Do I look like your assistant?"

"No," she says sweetly, reapplying something to her lip. "You look like a boy with idle hands and nothing better to do."

I snort. "Aish."

She ignores that. Keeps fixing her hair in the mirror, smoothing flyaways with practiced flicks of her fingers. She catches the light in this way that makes her look like she belongs in one of those fancy ads between K-dramas.

"We'll need energy for tomorrow," she says vaguely, eyes still on her reflection. "It's going to be even crazier."

I glance over. "You sound like you already know what's happening."

"Maybe I do." Her voice is lilting, playful. She taps her fingers against the mirror and smiles at herself like she's got a secret.

Something about the way she says it—too light to be casual, too smooth to be spontaneous—makes me pause. Did someone plan something without telling me? Or is it just girl stuff? Skincare shopping? Secret spa appointment?

I watch her out of the corner of my eye, but she doesn't say more. Just leans back a little and stretches her arms, her bracelets jingling.

Then she drops the bomb, casual as anything: "You know... Haeri's the kind of girl a lot of people don't notice at first. But when they do—it's over. Someone's going to fall. Hard."

I look at her.

She doesn't look at me.

She's fixing a small smudge under her eye with her fingertip, like she didn't just say something that set off a silent alarm in my head.

"Uh-huh," I say slowly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs. "Nothing. Just saying." And she stands, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. "Coming?"

I hesitate.

She winks. "Don't sit too long. Someone else might take your spot."

And just like that—she's gone, her sneakers squeaking lightly against the polished floor, joining the others like she didn't just hijack my entire train of thought.

I stare after her, still holding her jackets, and suddenly the waterfall behind me feels louder than it did before.

--++*++--

The food court is packed, but we find a table near the far end, under warm pendant lights that make everything feel cozier than it should. It smells like a thousand different kinds of fried things, all clashing in the air, but it's not terrible. Just mall food smells—grease, sugar, something vaguely spicy.

We're eating chicken—spicy, crispy, messy. Tamara insisted on this place. Her tray is a crime scene of sauce and napkins. Chloe's sharing fries with her while trying to avoid getting grease on her sleeves. Haeri's nibbling at hers with chopsticks like she's rationing it for the next decade. Yegi's already done, picking pieces off everyone else's trays.

Taeho's still not back.

"Yujin, you haven't said like... anything since we sat down," Chloe says, poking her straw at me like it's a mic. "What's up with you? Chicken got your tongue?"

"He's just in brooding mode," Yegi chimes in, leaning across the table to steal a fry. "Again."

I raise an eyebrow. "I'm eating."

"Exactly," Tamara grins. "You're too focused. Like someone's gonna steal it if you look away."

"That's because someone is stealing it," I say, flicking my eyes at Yegi.

She doesn't flinch. Just pops another piece in her mouth. "Consider it a tax."

There's laughter. Real, layered. Warm. It ripples across the table like the kind of sound you don't realize you missed until you're in it. And for a second, it feels good to stop thinking. To stop watching everyone so closely. I let the banter roll over me and just... be.

Until someone points out the obvious.

"Wait, where is Taeho?" Chloe checks her phone. "He's been gone forever."

"Maybe he got kidnapped," Tamara says, dramatically gasping like this is the opening of a mystery film.

"Washrooms too far," Yegi deadpans. "Classic mall maze trap."

We check the group chat. No response. No read receipts. Not online.

"I'll go check," I say, standing up and brushing my hands off on a napkin. No one argues.

I head down the hallway that leads toward the restrooms, past the long line of vending machines and the weird mural of abstract shapes and outdated mall logos. The crowd thins here—just echoes of footsteps, cleaner tiles, colder air.

There's a big glass window facing outside, halfway down the hall. I glance out.

And there he is.

Taeho. Standing just outside the entrance. Leaning against one of the columns, phone in hand, thumbs moving. Then he pockets it and heads up the stairs to the second level. Not toward the washrooms. Not lost.

I don't push it.

I walk back slowly, take a different route to make it look like I looked around more. When I get back, I shrug. "I didn't see which washroom he went to. He probably took a detour."

They accept it. Back to chicken and gossip.

Taeho shows up ten minutes later, hair wind-tousled and face unreadable.

"Got lost," he says simply, sitting down like nothing happened.

No one questions him. I don't either.

He's supposed to help me. With my thing. Whatever he's doing—that's his. Not mine to drag into the open.