Chapter Text
A cold hand on her forehead drags Zoey from her sleep.
She blinks, slowly waking to the pounding throb of a headache and Mira's face coming into focus, hovering above her with a subtle frown.
"What's going on..." Zoey murmurs as she feebly bats Mira's hand away.
It should still be the middle of the night. Last time Zoey checked, Mira was outside on the couch, watching a late night movie with Rumi. So why is she here trying to...
Zoey's eyes squint over to the sunlight pouring in through her curtains. Oh, it's tomorrow. When did that happen? Her notebooks are scattered across the floor, so she must have fallen asleep while working on their latest song. And yet she's still so, so very tired.
"Hello? Earth to Zoey?"
Right, Mira. Mira is still here.
"You look terrible," Mira tells her, blunt as usual. "You're feeling a little warm too. Are you sick?"
"No," Zoey mumbles. "Your hands are just cold," she adds as a perfectly reasonable answer. Technically, it's not a lie. Mira's hands are always like ice.
"You sure?" Rumi asks, suddenly poofing into the room in a cloud of pink smoke; Zoey tries her darnedest hardest not to jump. She keeps forgetting that Rumi can do that now - cool new demonic powers and all. She's definitely not jealous, nope.
"You didn't even wake up for breakfast this morning and we got you your favorite," Rumi says, sounding a bit let down.
"I missed pancake day?" Zoey figures she's the one who should be disappointed, but her throat scratches like burnt toast and the idea of swallowing food, no matter how delicious, comes across as a mild form of torture at the moment. "What time is it?"
"It's almost twelve," Mira says, checking her phone. "We have a meeting with Bobby today at noon, remember?"
"Oh... I guess I forgot. Sorry," Zoey apologizes after a beat. She drags herself out from under the sheets, ignoring Mira's grunt of protest, but when she tries to stand, her head is suddenly reeling and the entire universe spins out of control.
"Whoa..." Zoey breathes, struggling to stay upright. "I think I see two Rumis. Am I still dreaming?"
"That sounds like a handful," Mira says while Rumi gasps dramatically from behind. "Get back in bed, Zoey. You're obviously sick."
Zoey frowns at that baseless accusation.
"I'm not sick," she retorts, and keeps her two feet planted on the floor, just to prove a point.
"Right..." Mira drawls, hardly believing her. "You have exactly five seconds to get back in bed before I make you."
"Ugh, Mira..."
"Five."
"No, don't start-"
"Four."
"-counting down."
"Three."
"Seriously, I'm-"
"Two."
"Okay, fine!" And Zoey wishes she could've kept the argument going, but she also knows Mira isn't above tackling her loved ones if she really feels like she has to. Deciding it's not worth getting strangled by the duvet over something so small, Zoey retreats back onto her mattress.
This earns her a small smile from Mira, but she looks frustrated more than anything. Mildly inconvenienced, maybe. Zoey burrows her face into her pillow, stomach tightening at the expression.
She's not sick. She's not.
"We'll pick up some medicine on our way back," Rumi's voice echoes, unhelpfully, in her ears.
"I don't need it," Zoey grumbles, but her brain must have lagged for a few seconds, because when she finally glances up at them, putting on the most convincing 'fit as a fiddle' look she could muster, her bedroom is already empty.
She drifts back to sleep in an instant.
The first time Zoey is driven to the hospital, it's like any other weekday.
One minute, her father is there, watching and smiling as she runs carelessly around the playground. The next, he's gone. He sets her on top of the tallest jungle gym and tells her to stay. "Wait here," he says, before disappearing with his phone.
And it's not like Zoey wants to move anyway. She's scared of being up so high. Just looking down at the ground makes her feel sick and dizzy, like that one time she drank an old carton of milk from school.
But her dad forgets sometimes.
Sometimes, he gets too busy.
"He's a very important man, your father," her mom always reminds her. "That's how we can afford to live here in America. Don't you like living here, Zoey?"
Zoey loves living in California, of course, even if she barely knows how to spell out the word yet. But she liked Korea too. And she liked it when her dad had time to take her to the park - to listen to cicadas in the summer and catch frogs from the pond. She liked it when he pushed her tricycle up and down the street in front of their old house, even if it was loud and full of people.
She doesn't know how long she sits there but the sky starts to get dark. The clouds turn orange, pink and purple. All the other kids are getting ready to go home with their parents, and Zoey knows she should be a good girl and listen to her father's wishes, but her legs are starting to get tingly and numb. Her fingers smell gross from holding onto the metal bars for so long.
She's getting hungry, and a little scared.
And so, Zoey looks down again. Strangely enough, the ground doesn't seem so far anymore.
She shuts her eyes, counts to ten, and pushes off.
For a tiny moment, it feels like flying.
Then - she hits the ground.
Everything hurts and she can't move her arm. It's stuck underneath her, all twisted and wrong.
She doesn't really remember how her parents find her later. She doesn't remember much about the car ride back from the hospital either, just her mom yelling something mean and sharp, and her dad still talking to someone on the phone; neither of them look back at her.
She remembers the lollipop the nice nurse gave to her after the cast went on.
It tasted like cherries and made her tongue sticky and red. It helped wash away the taste of salty tears in her mouth. That part she remembers well.
"Is she awake yet?" someone asks in a hushed voice, obviously trying hard not to make a sound.
"No, I think she's sleeping," another person whispers back, just as soft.
Something cool rests gently on Zoey's forehead, then her cheek. It's nice and tempting, carefully coaxing her back into the world of the living.
"How's her fever?" Rumi's voice is clearer this time. Less like it's coming from underwater.
"Still pretty high." There's a short pause. A crinkle as Mira pries open a thin cardboard box full of pills. "She should probably eat something before she takes these."
"I can make some rice porridge?"
"We're not feeding her burnt porridge."
"...Fine. I'll order some."
Zoey smiles quietly at the image of Rumi, somehow managing to melt down the stove the last time she attempted to cook them something nice; she tries shifting slightly, hoping she has more energy now to sit and talk, but the room tilts as she does so. Nausea flickers again.
"Hey, how are you feeling?" Rumi's hand touches her shoulder, but all she can manage in response is a drawn-out moan. She's grateful that they don't say anything else, because Zoey doesn't have enough brain power for any "I told you so" moments.
Because she's still not sick. She's not. This is just a minor setback from her normal routine.
Mira hands her a glass of water from the nightstand. Zoey takes it obediently, drinking small sips from it before a cold tremble runs through her spine, forcing her to sink back down into the mattress.
"You need to eat something," Mira tells her, looking worried.
Zoey wraps her arms around herself, fighting back a shiver. "I'm not hungry."
She rolls over to face the wall before they can say another word.
Nobody warns Zoey that once things start to fall apart, everything crumbles all at once, faster than she can catch her breath.
Her dad stops wearing his fancy blue suit to work. He comes home from different places every week, smelling like sweat or gas or fried food. Her mom starts working twice as much, longer hours and added shifts.
She hears them, late at night, yelling behind the bedroom door.
"You promised me. You promised us!"
"I'm doing the best I can!"
"And it's not enough! We can barely afford to pay our rent!"
"I know that!"
"I'm exhausted! I can't do this anymore!"
Zoey doesn't have it in her to say that she's tired too, tired of eating cold leftovers for dinner, remembering to lock up the house if no one comes home on time, cleaning, doing laundry, making sure the house doesn't fall to shambles, all while going to classes, trying to make friends, keeping up with her studies.
She has a big history test coming up this Tuesday, and as she's pouring out her breakfast cereal, her nose burns, and she feels something warm trickling down her lips onto her chin.
"Oh... Zoey, are you okay, honey?" Her mother notices a moment later, but she's busy preparing her notes for work, and Zoey knows she has an important meeting today, she knows that, she can tell. So she gets up quickly on her feet, wiping away the blood with her sleeve.
"I'm okay," Zoey says with a smile.
She puts away her bowl and heads to school.
Zoey manages to swallow three spoonfuls of chicken porridge before she's running for the bathroom door, throwing her guts out into the toliet.
"Just leave me here to die, please," Zoey says miserably.
Mira rubs circles into her back as she rolls her eyes. "The floor is too dirty."
Rumi tucks a firm hand under her arm, steadying her gently. "Let’s get you back to bed, okay?"
Zoey isn't sure how they're being so nice and patient with her. Her breath must smell like vomit and her entire body is covered in sweat. No one should be touching her, not even with a ten-foot pole.
No one ever did.
No one ever wanted to.
But Rumi lifts Zoey into her arms like she doesn't weigh a thing, like she's not some sort of massive burden she feels obligated to wipe off the floor. Which is dirty, fine, she'll give Mira that.
Mira tucks her back into bed, lightly brushing away the bangs clinging to Zoey's forehead.
"Are you done with the porridge?"
"Mmph..."
"Think you can take your medicine now?"
"...Mmh."
"I'm gonna need a yes or no, Zoey."
She chooses to stay silent, and Mira sits back down in her chair with a sigh.
The divorce papers are finalized before Zoey even really understands what's going to happen to her.
She moves back and forth, between her mother's tiny one-room apartment in Seoul and her father's house in Burbank that now reeks of alcohol and smoke.
It's not so bad. There isn't as much screaming and throwing plates across the kitchen as there used to be, something Zoey appreciates immensely.
But it's not good either. She doesn't stay in one place for too long. Never really long enough to make real friends or to find a place where she might belong.
So, she learns to adapt.
She reminds herself of the turtles from the aquarium her parents used to take her to when she was young. She thinks of the ones that travel thousands and thousands of miles across the ocean, admiring their tenacity - the way they endure, the way they survive through change.
It becomes her greatest asset: to become whoever they need her to be, whenever they need her. A smile, if that's what makes her mother feel better. Silence, if that makes things easier with her father.
Whatever keeps the peace, whatever keeps them from leaving her behind.
Whatever it takes to keep herself safe.
"Come on, Zoey. You can't hide under there forever," Rumi unfairly points out. "At least take some medicine before you fall asleep again."
"I don't want to," Zoey mumbles, holding the blanket securely over her face.
"Ugh, seriously," Mira sighs for quite a long time. "Why are you being so stubborn about this. Just admit that you need help."
Zoey feels a harsh tug by her arm. A hand pulling at the edges of her blanket. Logically, she knows that it's just Mira, and Mira would never do anything to hurt her, even if she can be a little impatient sometimes.
But her thoughts are still jumbled from the fever and she can't stop her body from flinching away, a familiar jolt of panic rising from old memories, deep and buried.
"Don't touch me," the words escape from her sharply.
Nothing comes after that. Just silence.
They let her keep the blanket over her head, but Zoey knows that Rumi and Mira are still there, right on the other side of the duvet. She can hear them breathing; she can feel them watching, concerned, most likely, but maybe something else, too. Something worse.
Honestly, Zoey can't think about anything anymore. Her body is aching, her stomach is nearly empty, and she can still feel an invisible hand crawling up her skin from a nightmarish dream.
She draws her knees up to her chest, forcing her eyes firmly shut. Eventually, the world around her fades, exhaustion overtaking the stifling air.
"They can swim for that long?" Zoey watches the turtle float calmly in its big blue tank, her eyes wide with wonder. "But what happens if they get lost?"
"Lost?" Her dad laughs. "What do you mean, baby?"
"What if they can't find their way back home?"
"Oh, well, that's what those shells are for, sweetheart," her mother tells her softly. "They carry their homes with them, wherever they go."
Zoey stirs awake, her body hot and sticky and gross.
The room feels stuffy, and she's left drenched in a layer of sweat, her limbs heavy and disoriented.
Her gaze moves across the room, spotting Rumi sitting by the curtains, which have been drawn completely, blocking out every inch of light. Mira is perched on a chair beside her bed, scrolling lazily on her phone.
"Mira?" Zoey's voice comes out weak and scratchy, but it's enough to grab her attention. Mira looks up immediately, her eyes softening when they meet hers.
"Welcome back," she replies gently. "Are you feeling any better?"
Zoey considers lying again, but her throat closes up tight. She meets their eyes - Rumi with a deep crease between her brows, Mira hovering a little too close but trying not to crowd her. Concern radiates from them in waves, so loud it can barely be contained.
"I feel like crap," she admits with a tiny laugh. "Like crap pulled through bigger crap. I feel like shit."
And just like that, the pressure in the room breaks. She can almost see the other two let out a breath of relief, shoulders dropping, the tension melting away a little with an amused chuckle.
Zoey swallows a total of four different kinds of pills before Mira lets her lie back down.
It's quiet, and knowing Zoey doesn't like that too much, Rumi fills the space between them with stories from the day. Mundane stuff like how they really need to go grocery shopping soon, or how their fans are going crazy speculating the concept to their next comeback. Mira joins in as well, talking with Rumi as she slowly untangles the clumps out of Zoey's hair with her long fingers.
Zoey listens, her mind wandering in and out of the conversation, but the gentle rhythm of Mira's hand running through her hair, and the soothing tone of Rumi's voice keeps her grounded.
It's several minutes later, when she feels it's right to speak again.
"Hey... Do you guys remember when we were still trainees and we stayed up so late watching Finding Nemo?"
Mira nods, smirking. "Because Rumi's never seen it before and somebody thought that was borderline treason."
"I was raised by Celine," Rumi huffs. "What? You think she let me watch Disney movies before bedtime?"
"Of course not," Mira scoffs, like duh. "She's a bitch."
"Okay, let's not call my godmother a bitch, please."
"Then maybe she should stop acting like one."
Zoey giggles, then coughs, then giggles again. "I think about that day sometimes."
"Yeah?" Mira smiles down at her. "How come?"
"I don't know..." Zoey closes her eyes, picturing their old studio apartment with a shabby leather couch that struggled to hold all three of them at once. Though it didn't stop them from huddling together, watching an anxious clownfish and his endearingly forgetful friend travel across the ocean in search of his missing son.
Rumi kept bombarding them with questions about sharks, if anyone's ever been to Australia before, and if root canals really are that painful. Zoey spent the first ten minutes reciting every line under her breath, until Mira finally threw a pillow at her face because she was starting to get louder than the film.
"It makes me feel safe," Zoey says quietly.
There's a pause, filled only by the distant sound of traffic from outside and the shuffling of bed sheets.
"You know you can tell us anything, right?" Mira reminds her, voice soft but serious, like she doesn't want to make the same mistake and push too hard.
"I know," Zoey answers, and she wants to mean it. She really does.
Maybe she just doesn't know how yet.