Internally

It’s been three days since Mom introduced me to Big Hit. Three days.

How did all of this manage to happen so fast?

That’s the question I ask myself as I refuse to get out of bed the following morning. I yawn and replay yesterday’s events through my mind. It all seemed to go by in a flash, though I’m mostly certain that I managed to make a fool of myself many more times than necessary.

I go back to my original question. How did all this happen in such a short space of time? Maybe it’s nature’s way of compensating for everything else beforehand. Maybe it’s trying to make up the bad things to me with better ones.

“Mina! You’re going to be late for work!”

And on it goes – just a never ending circle that you can never quit.

The rest of the week is busy for the Bangtan Boys, with a stage to perform every single day. Each performance is an exact routine that someone in an office probably planned out weeks ago. Even so, not one of them is as significant or special as their comeback stage, at least not to me. I forget the number of coffees I fetch, or the Americanos that Suga spontaneously orders, or just how many times Jimin insists I call him oppa instead of Jimin-ssi. I’m so busy that I don’t get a chance to make a call, or talk with people for even two seconds, or get the opportunity to chat with Eun Ha again. I can only imagine how the members feel.

It’s only a week after the comeback stage that anyone gets a rest day – Thursday. Mom takes the day off to content herself with k-drama, Kyung Hee tells me she’s off to a relaxing spa session, and the members themselves disappear to sleep in their dorm. But sleeping doesn’t seem to be on the cards for me.

“Mina! Get the phone, would you?” Mom calls on Thursday morning.

“Yes, oppa,” I mumble tiredly, shuffling out of my bedroom in fluffy animal slippers.

Then my eyes widen. What did I just say? I swallow as I feel my ears heating up. Why is ‘oppa’ on autopilot now?

“Can you get me some water, Mina?”

“Yes, oppa.”

“Um, I mean – yes, Mom!” I shout, determined to undo the last two seconds.

Curse you, Jimin and your stupid title preferences. Oppa keeps slipping out of my mouth in unexpected circumstances and it’s unnerving me.

“Mina - the phone!”

Right – the phone is still ringing in the hallway. I cross the open-plan living room of the apartment to reach it and pick it up with clammy hands. Who even has our number?

A jolt goes through me as I think, Dad. No. He’d never call us, not ever. It can’t be him. Filled with sudden anxiety at the cold caller, I lift the phone to my ear and say, “Hello?”

By the time I put the phone down, my face has blanched. It’s such a bad idea, a terrible idea... but it’s my job. I hate the thought of it, but what the manager says goes. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to think. But no matter how much I ponder, there doesn’t seem to be any way out. And besides, I just confidently agreed.

“Who was it, Mina?” Mom calls.

“The manager!” I yell back. “Don’t worry about it, I’m going out!”

I drag my feet back to my room, replaying the awful conversation in my head. Why had I agreed so quickly?

“I wouldn’t ask anything of you on a rest day, but could you do me a favour?”

Yes, manager. Of course, manager; I’ll do anything for you, manager.

“The members have really overworked this week, though there was no way around it. If you’d be willing to earn extra wages, it would be brilliant if you could go over, clean the dorm, and cook them a nice meal. Could you do that?”

I throw myself onto my bed with a groan. Why didn’t I just say no? I silently curse at myself, distraught. You can’t really disagree with the manager, though. Even though he asks it as a question, it is usually an order.

I glance over at the time and groan once more. I’ll have to leave soon, and that makes things all the worse. But despite my reluctance, I force my arms to open my suitcase again and find something clean to wear. Even after almost two weeks since moving to Korea, I still haven’t found the time to unpack.

I find a faded pair of jeans, slip on a t-shirt and an oversized sweater, and stuff my feet into my Doc. Martens – the only pair of shoes I manage to wear. There are flats and sneakers hiding somewhere in the bottom of my luggage, I’m sure. I throw my messy brown hair into a ponytail, grab my phone and some cash, and prepare for the worst.

But really – it can’t be any worse than the first time I called round.

“I’ll call you later, Mom!” I call in English as I’m heading out.

“Speak Korean, Mina!” Mom responds from her room, “Or your Korean will be even worse than it is now!”

I roll my eyes, but don’t give her the satisfaction of a reply. I lock the apartment door behind me and make my way down to the road. If I’m honest, I’m terrible at giving directions, especially in foreign languages. Instead, I type out on my phone the address of the Big Hit building, which I now have committed to memory, and show it to the driver.

We reach Big Hit without a hitch and I pay the driver, thanking him gratefully. I recall the manager’s request in my head, replaying his words and translating them to English at the same time.

“You’ll need to come in and get the key to the dorm. The members may still be sleeping, so try not to wake them.”

There’s a crash of thunder up ahead and I look upwards into a cloudy grey sky. And all of a sudden, it starts to rain. I dart into the Big Hit building, just as the rain begins to pour down outside.

“Can I help you?” asks the receptionist politely from her desk.

I walk over to greet her and swallow. “I’m supposed to find Bangtan’s manager?” It comes out as more of a question than anything else.

The receptionist seems to recognise me then and smiles. “Ah, Mina, isn’t it?” I nod and she says, “He left this for you.”

She pushes a small envelope across the desk and I pick it up cautiously. I open the top and peer inside. It’s a key.

“He said to pick up your wage at the end of the day, before you go home,” the receptionist informs me helpfully.

“Thank you,” I say, bowing to her. I turn towards the automatic doors, grimacing at the swirling lurch of anticipation growing in the pit of my stomach. But I quickly stop in my tracks. It’s still pouring down outside.

I lose count of the minutes I spend pacing the length of the entrance, jumping every time I cause the doors to slide open. But the rain eventually lets up and I stop feeling sorry that I didn’t bring the yellow coat. I wave goodbye to the receptionist and head out onto the streets that are stained dark with raindrops.

It takes me longer than it should to walk the next few blocks. I’m pretty sure that there were a few wrong turns along my route, despite my inner insistence that I’m going the right way. But after what seems like an age of hopeless wandering, I turn onto a street I think I recognise, and start marching down it with a new surge of determination.

And to my luck, it starts to rain again.

I promised the manager I’d do this. But sometimes promises make you grit your teeth in order to keep them.

The rain comes down heavier than it should and I swear under my breath in English. I’m not sure whether any passersby hear me, or whether they understand. Loose stands of hair stick to my face and my clothes cling to my body. The only part of me that doesn’t seem to be soaked through is my feet, and that’s only because of the smart decision to wear boots.

I run the last length to the apartment building that rings vague bells in my head. I push my doubts aside about whether it’s the right one, and dart inside anyway. The entrance is quiet except for my heavy breathing and the rain that patters down outside.

I give a long sigh before squelching over to the elevator and stepping inside.

Many thoughts run through my head as the elevator makes the ascent to the top floor. When the buzzer sounds to alert me of our arrival, what I want most is to press the button and go down again. But I force myself out of the doors and take careful steps to the door of the apartment.
In the back of my mind, I realise I’m still dripping and trailing rainwater, and that I left a puddle of rain in the elevator itself. I’m really never going to get dry. I swear it never rains this much in America.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out the envelope with the key inside. Maybe, if I’m really quick, I can get everything done and leave before any of them wake up. That would be fine, right?

But what am I really afraid of? Yes, the first time was arguably the worst first impression I’ve ever given, but this time is different. Isn’t it? I know them better now, sort of, and we can get along, mostly. Jungkook plays around in every spare moment, Namjoon provides short but interesting conversations in English, and Jimin insists I call him oppa. What could possibly go wrong?

Regaining my confidence bit by bit, I slot the key into the lock, and unlock the door. Then I turn the handle, and step inside...

It’s exactly the same.

Walking inside is like playing a game of spot-the-difference. There’s someone’s hoodie strewn across the back of the U-shaped sofa, and another pair of shoes by the door that I didn’t notice last time. The only thing that remains the same is that the apartment is as eerily quiet as before.
I pull the Doc. Martens off before any more rainwater can drip down my legs and into my socks. There’s already another small puddle on the floor. Every part of me feels sticky and it’s an uncomfortable sort of feeling. For a few moments, I don’t move, unsure of what to do now.

Reluctant to start work still soaked, I peel off my oversized sweater and sigh. There’s a radiator a few feet away, so I take the liberty of draping the sweater over it to dry. The rest of my clothes still stick to me like before, but it’s a start.

I pick up my boots from where they sit in the puddle, and pour a few drops of water out of them. They’ll have to dry too. I bend my knees to put them down again, but water has a way of making things slippery and fate has a way of ruining my life. I was supposed to be quiet. But the heavy boots slip from my fingers and hit the floor one after the other with a loud thud.

I freeze, mouth gaping and mind whirring. What do I do?! The manager’s words echo in my head. Try not to wake them... It’s a little too late for that.

A door opens from past the living area and a tall, dark-haired figure emerges, frowning in confusion. His eyes meet mine and he suddenly grins.

“I can explain-” I’m cut off before I can get another word in.

“Mina! Wow, it’s weird seeing you here again. Let me guess – you’re trying to play a prank on the members? Please let me help-”

“Jungkook!” I say sharply through a whisper. I beckon him over with one hand, still eying the fallen shoes.

“What is it?” Jungkook asks in a low tone, his eyes still excited.

“I’m not playing a prank,” I assure him. “Your manager sent me here to cook and clean.”

“Oh,” says Jungkook. He pauses and narrows his eyes. “Wait, you’re here to cook? Brilliant! I’m really hungry. I don’t think I’ve eaten this morning.”

“Actually-”

“Is it raining outside?” Jungkook interrupts, eying me up and down. “You look drenched.”

“Good observation,” I say dryly, still squirming at the feeling of wet clothes against skin.

“You can use the shower if you want,” Jungkook offers, “And after you’ve washed, I’m sure I could find you something dry to wear.”

His offer is sweet and sincere but I’m not certain whether I should take it. The idea makes me feel kind of awkward – showering in a house with seven guys I barely know? Then again, it’s not like I’ll get any drier by just standing here.

I bite my lip. “I couldn’t ask you to do that, Jungkook,” I tell him, but my voice wavers at the offer.

“Really, it’s fine,” Jungkook assures me. “The others won’t mind, honestly.” He seems so sure as well.

“Well,” I say slowly, “I suppose...”

“Great,” says Jungkook, pushing me in the direction of the bathroom, “There are spare towels in the cupboard and I’ll knock when I’ve found some clothes, okay?”

“Yeah, sure, but-”

“Go on then,” says Jungkook, opening the door and gesturing for me to go inside. I take a single step inside the bathroom and he shuts the door.

My eyes scan the room and my brain goes into cleaner-mode. You can tell seven guys live here just by looking at the bathroom. It needs organising and a thorough clean. But it’s not as bad as it could be. My next-door-neighbour Jace lives with his dad and three brothers and their bathroom is a lot worse.

Despite my reservations, I leave my clothes in a pile on the floor and step under the hot shower. And it’s relaxing somehow. I wash the rain out and detangle my unruly hair, and by the time I’m done, I feel a lot better than I did before.

That is, until I remember that I forgot to lock the door.

My heart plunges to the depths of my stomach and I turn rigid with sudden fear. It isn’t a problem in my apartment. Either I’m using the bathroom or Mom is, or nobody. And we don’t usually need it at the same time.

What if someone comes in?

I can see the door in the mirror by the sink, and I watch in terror as the handle turns. I shriek incomprehensible words in English, words I can’t even understand, and the door slams shut again.

“Yoongi!” I can hear Jungkook outside. I turn the shower off to listen and quickly wrap a towel around myself.

“Jungkook-”

“I can explain-”

“I just need the toilet,” says Suga irritably, “And then I’m going back to sleep.”

“Just give me one second, hyung,” Jungkook pleads. He knocks loudly on the door and calls, “Mina!”

“What is she doing here?” Suga hisses, only just loud enough for me to hear. His voice is thick with sleep but it still radiates a level of annoyance.

“Mina, I’ve got some clothes for you,” Jungkook says through the door. “I’ll just-” He opens the door a crack and puts a pile of clothes on the floor just inside.

“Thank you,” I say in response, my heart still thumping inside my chest. I pick up the clothes and slip them on as fast as humanly possible, motivated by the thought of Suga waiting impatiently outside.

I glance down at myself and turn to stare at my reflection in the mirror. The jeans, which as supposed to be skinny, are too long, so I fold them up at least four times. The sweatshirt is also too large and loose, but it’s not too bad. It’s covered in horizontal black and white stripes, I note as I roll the sleeves up so they don’t hang over my hands. I leave my hair down to dry, scoop up my own clothes, and open the bathroom door.

“Are they okay?” Jungkook asks, nodding to my oversized outfit. I nod and he smiles in relief.

Suga doesn’t say anything for a moment, only eying me up and down with a frown. Then he says, “Are those my jeans?”

The sentence makes me painfully aware of just how short I am. Suga’s not particularly tall himself, but I still had to roll his jeans up four times. Four times. I refuse to meet his eyes and reply with a shrug.

“Sorry, hyung,” says Jungkook, rubbing the back of his neck, “They came back from the laundry and-”

“I don’t care.” Suga just pushes past us, yawning, and shuts the bathroom door.

For a few seconds, Jungkook and I just stand there, until he says, “He’s always like that.”

“Rude?” I put in. My lips form a small smirk at Jungkook’s apology.

“Don’t take it personally,” Jungkook says quickly, spreading his hands in front of him, “Most of the members are grumpy in the morning, but Yoongi’s the most.”

“It’s okay,” I tell him reassuringly. “I’m not here for anyone to be nice to anyway.”

I take a breath and walk back to where my sweater is drying on the radiator near the front door. I take advantage of the rest of the radiator to dry my other clothes, and when I’m done I brush my hands off on Suga’s jeans. I should get on with what I came here to do.

My eyes trail over to the kitchen and I sigh. I have to cook them a meal? My mind goes blank as I try to think of what to cook. For the moment, I decide to put the matter aside and start cleaning.
I get rid of any rubbish; wash up all the dirty dishes; wipe surfaces clean. The apartment isn’t as cluttered or messy as it could be, but I suppose that’s because the residents aren’t here for most of the day. I tidy game controllers; organise DVDs; plump cushions. The thought of a wage keeps me motivated enough, even when I’m tidying around Jungkook, who is lounging on the sofa whilst playing a game on his phone.

Jimin emerges from one of the bedrooms, which I don’t dare to enter ever again. Dressed in sweatpants and a tank top, he yawns and stretches, and blinks his eyes. His arms are really well-toned... Not that it matters, of course, or that I care.

“Mina!” he says with a sleepy grin, “What are you doing here?”

I chuckle and wipe my hands on Suga’s jeans again. “Your manager seems to like me,” I say.

“Ah,” says Jimin, rubbing his eyes, “Well, I can help you clean, if that’s what you’re doing...”

“That’s okay,” I assure him quickly, “You’ve been working all week. You should rest.”

An image comes to mind of the seven of them resting their heads on the backs of chairs and sleeping in every spare moment they could grasp. It’s followed by another of the members coming off stage, sweat pouring from their faces. Even though they thoroughly enjoyed it, that’s what last week was like.

“Alright,” Jimin agrees, sinking into the sofa next to Jungkook. He glances up at me and grins suddenly. “Would you also happen to be making breakfast?” he asks, his expression becoming cheeky.

I shrug, wandering over to the kitchen area with uncertainty. “What would you like?” I ask. I poke through cupboards and draws, peering at the contents.

And that’s when I realise that I have no clue how to cook.

It’s not that I can’t, of course. At nineteen, most people know basic cooking. For me, it goes further. I can make some pretty complex dishes. But all of that knowledge disappears when you come to Korea. What do Koreans eat for breakfast? I should know this from my mom’s cooking, but at home I mostly ate western food, and here we’ve been too busy to cook. Most mornings would be a rushed coffee, and they still are.

I hesitate and lean my palms on the counter. Jimin must still be thinking because he hasn’t answered my question.

“Jimin?” I prompt. I pause, trying to grab his attention and add, “Oppa?”

Jungkook looks up from his phone and snickers, not quite discreetly enough. He turns to me with a smirk and says, “Why don’t you surprise us, Mina?”

Jimin shoots him a look and leans his arm over the back of the sofa to face me. “You don’t have to cook for us,” he says.

“I can,” I object, “I just don’t know how-”

“You don’t know how to cook?” Jungkook interrupts in surprise.

“No,” I say, “I mean yes. I mean- I can cook, just not any Korean dishes. It comes with living in America for nineteen years.”

“I keep forgetting you’re from America,” says Jimin with a sweet smile, “Your Korean pronunciation is very good.”

He’s just being nice. My pronunciation is terrible and my vocabulary is even worse. I have to translate into English in my head. I’m getting faster at doing it, but it often leaves long gaps in conversation if someone says an unfamiliar word.

Even so, I return the smile and reply with, “Thank you.”

“Well, you don’t have to cook anything Korean,” says Jungkook. “What do people eat for breakfast in America?”

That gets me thinking. If I’m honest, it’s usually toast, with jam if you’re lucky. But I could probably make something more interesting...

Jimin grins widely. “You could make us something foreign,” he suggests, “If that’s okay.”

“Actually, I think I could do that,” I muse, pondering over dishes in my head.

That’s when it hits me. Pancakes!

I immediately start the search for ingredients whilst Jungkook and Jimin watch in curiosity. I tick things off on my fingers as I pile them on the counter. Somehow, there is almost everything I need, but one thing is missing.

“Blueberries,” I mutter in English, my eyes scanning the contents of the fridge, “Where are the blueberries?”

“Can someone get Namjoon to translate?” Jungkook jokes through a laugh.

“Do you have everything?” Jimin asks, resting his elbows on the back of the sofa and resting his chin in his palms.

I close the fridge and frown. The Korean word as completely slipped my mind. I don’t use it often. I search it up on my phone and smile in remembrance. “Blueberries,” I tell Jimin, “We don’t have any.”

“Are they important?” Jimin enquires. “What are you making?”

I smile then. “It’s a surprise.”

Looks like I’m making breakfast after all.

Notes

Hey guys!

*When you look at the last chapter and it says 'updated 22 days ago'*

Sorry about that.

I meant to upload this chapter sooner, only I didn't want to do it until I'd finished the next chapter, just in case anything needed altering. But here it is, and I hope you enjoyed it! The next chapter will be up soon, and I mean that this time :)

Thanks for reading,
asterisk xx