Chapter Text
Rumi lost her voice two days ago.
At first, it just hurt. Her throat burned after dance practice, and she figured it was the dry air, or maybe yelling counts too many during rehearsal. She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t have time to be sick.
The HoneyMoon comeback was hers to manage— had to be. The new choreography. The interviews. The promotional collabs. Every loose end felt like a thread wrapped around her throat.
But now her voice is gone. Really gone. No sound comes out except these weak, breathy exhales that barely count as words. Her chest feels tight. Her hands won’t stop shaking.
And worst of all—her marks are faintly glowing again.
She sees them in the mirror that morning. Pale violet along her collarbone, the same kind of dull shimmer they’d had before everything went bad. She covers them with makeup immediately. Turtleneck on top of that. She doesn’t tell Mira or Zoey. If they find out, they'll worry, and she doesn't want—
Her knees buckle in the hallway.
She catches herself on the wall and stands there, dizzy and panicked, hands trembling harder now. Her skin feels hot, her breath shallow. She thinks she might pass out.
She hears Mira’s voice from the living room.
“Rumi?”
She freezes. Too late.
“What the hell?” Zoey’s voice is sharper. She rushes to her side and immediately catches her arm. “You’re burning up—babe, what is this? Why didn’t you say anything?”
Rumi shakes her head, mouthing nothing, shrinking back instinctively. She pulls at the collar of her turtleneck, trying to hide more of her skin.
Mira sees it. She sees everything.
“Oh my god,” she says quietly. “You thought the marks were coming back.”
Rumi looks away.
Zoey’s voice drops, like the fight drains out of her. “Rumi…”
Rumi starts typing on her phone—
I thought I was okay. I’ve been okay. I didn’t want to mess it up. Not now.
The words blur from the tears she won’t let fall.
Zoey reads it, jaw clenched. “You’re not messing anything up.”
Mira steps forward and pulls the phone from her hands gently. “You’re sick. That’s it. Not cursed. Not broken. Not dangerous.”
Then, quieter: “And you don’t have to go through it alone.”
Rumi’s face crumples for just a second.
Then she nods.
Zoey and Mira practically drag her to bed. Rumi tries to protest—tapping weakly on her phone, something about the group’s livestream tomorrow and how she still hasn’t finalized outfits—but neither of them are listening.
“You need to lie down,” Mira says, pushing the blankets back and guiding Rumi in like she’s tucking in a porcelain doll.
Zoey, pacing near the doorway, mutters, “Maybe we should just call that tonic guy again.”
Mira groans, already rubbing her temples. “Please don’t bring him up.”
“He helped!” Zoey insists.
“He sold you a ‘universal healing elixir’ that turned out to be glorified grape juice.”
“Okay, yeah—but Rumi liked it.”
Rumi, still mute and exhausted, blinks at them. Then shrugs, mouthing, it tasted good.
Mira stares at both of them like she’s living with toddlers. “You are not giving her thirty-dollar juice with glitter in it and calling it medicine.”
“It’s not glitter,” Zoey argues, “It’s crushed quartz infused with chakra resonance. That’s what he said.”
“He also said it cured taxes.”
Rumi lets out a breathy wheeze that might be a laugh, and Zoey grins, triumphant. “See? Healing.”
Rumi doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when she wakes up, it’s dark out. Her throat still burns, her body aches, but she’s warm.
Pressed between them.
Zoey’s arm is slung around her waist, loose and heavy, her face buried into Rumi’s back like a sleepy koala. Mira’s curled in close at her front, her hand tucked under Rumi’s jaw, thumb gently stroking at her cheek like she’s still soothing her in her sleep.
It’s quiet—too quiet for a house usually filled with music and movement and half-finished arguments about snack hoarding. For once, there’s no expectation. No tension waiting to snap in her chest.
She’s just… here. Held.
Rumi shifts a little, enough that Mira’s eyes flutter open. She doesn't say anything, just blinks at her. Then, like instinct, her fingers go to Rumi’s collar. She pushes it down just slightly and checks the skin where her marks shimmered earlier.
Still there. But faint now. Calm.
She traces over one with the pad of her finger.
Rumi’s breath catches.
“You’re okay,” Mira whispers, voice low and tired and warm with relief. “It’s not coming back. It was never about the marks. You’re just exhausted.”
Rumi nods, slow. It feels like her throat might close again if she tries to cry, so she doesn’t. She just presses her forehead to Mira’s and breathes through the ache.
Behind her, Zoey stirs. “What time is it?” she mumbles into Rumi’s shoulder.
“Late,” Mira says.
Zoey hums. “She awake?”
Mira nods.
“Tell her I knew it was grape juice and I’d still buy it again.”
Rumi lets out the softest laugh—soundless, but Mira feels it in her chest. It’s the first time she hasn’t looked scared all day.
“Go back to sleep,” Mira murmurs.
Zoey tightens her arm around Rumi. “Not unless she does.”
Rumi blinks slow. She’s still sick. Still anxious. Still scared that all of this could slip if she stops holding on so tight. But right now, they’re here. Not just beside her, but with her. Soft, steady. Anchored.
She lets herself close her eyes again.
And this time, when she falls asleep, it’s not from crashing.
It’s from comfort.