The morning of the reunion, the rhythm of my heartbeat matched the rhythm of my movements.
"Five, six, seven, eight—"
I slid into a wide stance, arms slicing through the air with practiced precision. Sweat poured down my back, the floor beneath me warm from how many times I'd danced across it. The playlist I'd crafted the night before blared an old Krystal track—one I knew in my bones. My legs burned with effort, my breath came short and hot, but I didn't stop.
Pop right shoulder, drop low, roll hips, spin. Pose.
Again.
I had to keep going. Not just for the sake of training, but because if I stopped, I'd start thinking. And thinking meant remembering. And remembering meant hurting.
I pushed the dresser closer to the wall and kicked the laundry basket aside. My room wasn't built for dancing, but I made it work. I had to.
The mirror caught a flash of her face—no, my face—and I flinched before powering through the next section. Double spin, knee drop, pop, pop, roll. My knee trembled, but I bit back the pain and kept going.
"You're not Korn anymore," I whispered under my breath, turning sharply on the beat. "But you will be again."
By the time I collapsed onto the floor, the playlist had looped twice. My limbs twitched with exhaustion. My hoodie stuck to my skin, and my thighs trembled with effort, but something inside me felt lighter.
I was ready for today.
Or so I thought.
"Thip, sweetie, are you sure that's the dress you want to wear?" Mom asked, voice laced with that edge of gentle disapproval she was too polite to ever make direct.
I tugged at the hem of the lacy yellow dress she'd helped me pick out. "Yeah. I like it."
She smiled and brushed a stray hair from my cheek. "It suits you, darling. You look beautiful."
I blushed. "Thanks, Mom."
Beam snorted. "Well, I hope Auntie Vanee doesn't decide yellow is out this season."
Ah. That explained everything.
My aunt, Vanee, was something else. She'd somehow perfected the art of being sweet as syrup while twisting knives into people's ribs. She was the kind of woman who told you your lipstick was smudged in front of a crowd or offered diet tips with a smile like she was handing out candy. And she had eight kids. Eight. And yet her house was spotless, her hair always styled, and her Instagram always pristine.
Her secret? A husband with more money than time, and enough pride to fund her curated life.
"She always acts like she's the queen of this family," Ploy muttered as he adjusted his collared shirt. "Even Grandma tries to impress her."
"She refers to her son as heir," Beam added.
I blinked. "Wait, that's real? That wasn't a joke?"
They all laughed, and the moment passed, lighthearted for now.
The venue was a small resort space with open gardens and indoor banquet rooms—a bit lavish for a family gathering, but Vanee had insisted. She wanted the photos to be perfect.
There were pink flower arrangements at every table, and the room buzzed with relatives greeting one another, air kisses and exaggerated smiles flying like confetti. I stuck close to Mom, trying not to draw attention to myself. But of course, the second I grabbed a plate of food and headed for the buffet table—she found me.
"Oh, Kornthip, darling!" Aunt Vanee's voice rang out like a bell dipped in sugar.
I turned slowly, balancing my plate like it might protect me.
She looked immaculate—hair in a glossy updo, pearls around her neck, and a dress that probably cost more than my entire closet. Her eight children flitted around her like bees to a queen.
"I almost didn't recognize you!" she gasped. "You've... matured."
"Hi, Auntie." I bowed politely.
She glanced down at my plate and her smile faltered. "Oh dear. Is that fried pork? And sticky rice? So heavy for a girl your size."
I blinked. "I was just—"
"And holding your spoon like that?" she tutted, reaching out to adjust my grip. "Not very ladylike, darling."
Heat crept up my neck. "Sorry."
"You really should try the salad. My son made it himself! He's so into clean eating. Just like his father's side."
"I'm not hungry anymore," I mumbled, setting my plate down on a nearby table.
"Oh, don't pout," she said, pressing a manicured hand to my cheek. "I'm just helping. You want to be a proper lady, don't you?"
I nodded stiffly and excused myself, each step away from her like peeling off layers of shame. I made it to the side garden before the lump in my throat swelled too large.
I stood under the shade of a wide tree, pulling in deep breaths and blinking fast. I hadn't expected it to hurt this much.
My fingers clenched. Maybe I wasn't as strong as I thought.
A voice drifted from nearby.
"Okay, that's enough for now, petals. I'm heading into the lion's den. Wish me luck surviving another family get-together where everyone pretends to be royalty."
I turned toward the voice, drawn to it like a tether.
King stood under a pergola just a few yards away, holding her phone out in selfie mode. Her short dark hair was streaked with pale blue highlights, catching the sun. Her outfit—a powder-blue blouse with a scalloped collar tucked into a pleated skirt—glowed soft against the greenery.
"See you next time!" she said brightly, blowing a kiss before tapping her screen and slipping her phone into a pastel purse.
She exhaled. Then turned.
We locked eyes.
King raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"
I hesitated, caught off guard. "Uh. Yeah. Just... needed some air."
"You look like someone just tried to stage an intervention over your snack choices."
That startled a laugh out of me. "Something like that."
She stepped forward, scanning the venue behind me. "Was it Aunt Vanee?"
I blinked. "Yeah. How'd you know?"
She made a face. "Because I've been there. More times than I can count."
"I guess you've met her before."
King chuckled. "Unfortunately. She's my mom."
Silence.
"Oh," I said. "That... makes sense."
"You sound like someone who just found out Darth Vader was their neighbor."
"Sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," she said, waving a hand. "She's the reason I dressed like this today."
I glanced at her again—her soft blue outfit, the streaks in her hair. "Because she hates blue?"
King smirked. "Bingo. She always said blue was too 'strong' for girls. I guess that's why I like it."
"It suits you."
She studied me for a second, like she wasn't sure what to make of me. "You're Vanee's niece?"
"Yeah. Through my mom."
"She seems nice."
"She is."
"I can tell. You've got her calm aura. Not like my mom's storm of perfectionism."
I smiled, a little unsure. "You handle her better than I do."
King snorted. "I've had practice. And... therapy."
"Maybe I should look into that."
There was a pause. Not awkward, just... open.
"You got a name?" she asked.
"Kornthip."
King froze, like she'd been slapped with a memory. "Wait. Kornthip?"
I nodded slowly. "Yeah."
Her eyes narrowed—not in suspicion, but confusion. "That's... That's wild. That was the name of someone I used to know. Someone I lost."
"I'm sorry."
"She was—" Her voice caught, then steadied. "She was in my group. My friend. She died."
"I heard about that."
"You did?"
I nodded, carefully. "Yeah."
There was something thick in the air now. An invisible thread stretching between us.
"She always wanted to be better," King said. "Even when she was exhausted. Even when people didn't see her. She kept going."
"She sounds strong."
"She was."
I looked at my hands. "Sometimes it feels easier to just disappear."
King sat down on the edge of the stone planter, crossing one leg over the other. "I get that. But disappearing doesn't fix things. Trust me—I've tried."
I hesitated before joining her. The stone was cool against the backs of my legs.
"I've been thinking," I said. "About becoming a trainee."
King turned to me, brows raised. "Seriously?"
I nodded. "I've been training on my own. Dancing. Singing. Every day."
"That's not easy."
"No. But I feel like... it's the only way forward. I want to start again. Be someone real."
King nodded slowly. "Then do it. But do it for you. Not to prove anything to someone else."
"I want to be good enough."
"You already are."
My throat tightened. Her words landed like balm.
King stood and stretched. "Come on. If we hide out here too long, they'll think we've eloped."
I laughed, surprising myself.
She held out a hand. "Let's go brave the buffet. Together."
I took her hand.
Maybe I wasn't alone after all.
The buffet line had thinned out by the time they slipped back into the reception hall. King walked beside Kornthip with a confident swing in her step, her baby blue skirt catching the light. She looked like she belonged on a stage, even when holding a plastic plate.
King nudged me playfully with her elbow as we neared the buffet table. "Come on," she said under her breath, "let's grab some food and make my mother twitch."
I blinked, cautiously glancing toward Aunt Vanee, who was mid-conversation with a few other relatives, her posture perfect and her judgmental radar clearly still active. "What do you mean?"
"She loves to pretend she's in charge of everyone's plate," King whispered, grabbing a porcelain plate and stacking it with unapologetic confidence. "Time to ruin her afternoon."
Before I could respond, she was already scooping up a generous helping of fried pork, sticky rice, and thick slices of mango drenched in coconut cream. She tossed two pandan jellies on the side and topped it all off with crispy shallot-topped noodles like she was building a masterpiece.
"You're going to die," I murmured, half amused, half horrified.
"Death by flavor," she replied, grabbing a second plate and nudging it toward me. "Your turn."
I hesitated, then followed her lead—albeit with less boldness. But with her there, watching like a mischievous older sister, I found myself piling on things I hadn't dared touch earlier. The spicy pork, the flaky curry puffs, even a fried banana or two.
As we turned away from the buffet, King suddenly lifted her plate high in the air and called out with mock cheer, "Thanks for the spread, Mom! The fried pork is amazing."
Aunt Vanee turned toward us, her pearls glinting in the light. Her gaze landed on King's plate—then on mine—and her expression froze.
"That's... quite a lot," she said, carefully controlled, like she was trying to keep the pitch of her voice from climbing too high.
King beamed. "Well, I figured you wouldn't want me skipping meals again. You were so concerned when I lost three pounds last summer."
There was a tiny beat of silence in the room. One of the nearby uncles chuckled awkwardly.
Vanee's smile stiffened. "Well. I'm glad you're… eating."
King leaned closer to me and whispered, "She'll be picking cilantro out of her teeth in rage for the next hour."
I bit back a laugh and followed her to an empty garden table, tucked beneath a trimmed hedge with a view of the lily pond. The second we sat down, King dug in like she hadn't eaten all day.
"You'd think a woman with eight kids would have less time for control freakery," King muttered under her breath as she surveyed the food.
Kornthip bit back a laugh. "You really don't hold back, huh?"
"Why should I?" King said with a grin, plucking two skewers of grilled chicken onto her plate. "She hates when I eat with my hands. Guess what I'm doing?"
Kornthip blinked. "Seriously?"
King winked. "Watch this."
They sat near the center, right in Vanee's line of sight. Kornthip nervously picked at her rice, but King leaned back in her seat like she owned the room. With deliberate flair, she tore a piece of chicken from the skewer with her teeth, grinning like a cartoon villain.
Aunt Vanee's smile faltered across the room. She turned to whisper something to her husband, but King didn't flinch. In fact, she raised her skewer slightly like a toast. Vanee's eye twitched. Kornthip choked on a laugh and ducked her head.
"You're going to get disowned," Kornthip whispered.
"Only if I'm lucky," King said breezily, wiping her fingers on a napkin. "Anyway, you shouldn't let her get to you. She's always been like this. Nothing's ever good enough unless it's her idea."
"I figured that out earlier," Kornthip murmured. "She tried to 'correct' my spoon-holding."
"Classic." King made a face. "Listen, you just keep doing you. People like her don't get to decide who's ladylike or worthy or whatever. She's playing a game that's rigged in her favor."
Kornthip smiled, her shoulders loosening. "Thanks."
King reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. "You've got Instagram?"
"Yeah," Kornthip said, surprised.
"Here." She slid her phone across the table. "Type it in. I want to keep up with your journey. When you make it to Korea, make sure to reach out, alright? The scene can be brutal—you'll need someone in your corner."
Kornthip hesitated for a second before typing in her username. "You really think I'll make it?"
King took her phone back and gave her a dead-serious look. "I think if anyone can, it's someone who trains before breakfast and survives a Vanee ambush without setting the place on fire."
Kornthip laughed. "Well… I almost did."
King stood, brushing off invisible dust from her skirt. "Come on. Let's get dessert. I'm craving something obnoxiously pink just to tick her off."
As they walked toward the sweets table, King leaned in slightly. "You've got people who believe in you, you know? Even if they don't always say it out loud."
Kornthip swallowed hard. "Thanks. That… means a lot."
"Anytime," King said. Then, raising her voice just a little as they passed her mother, she added, "And yes, I will be having the strawberry cake with extra whipped cream. Thanks for asking, Mom."
Aunt Vanee blinked slowly. Her smile was back, but it was tight as a lid on a pressure cooker.
King, unbothered, clinked her fork against Kornthip's with a grin. "To troublemakers who dance better than they spoon."
Kornthip burst into laughter, and for the first time that day, it felt like maybe she wasn't just surviving the reunion—she was reclaiming it.