Just silence.
At first, Y/N thought the girls would welcome it. Time to breathe. Time to be twenty-somethings without the world clawing at them. She told herself the stillness might even be good for Jennie, who had been running on fumes for years.
But silence could be cruel, too.
Y/N adjusted quickly to working from her small apartment, files spread across her kitchen table, calls with staff reduced to curt updates and vague "we'll see." She kept her hours neat, her days filled, anything to keep from feeling the drift. Still, she found her mind wandering, always circling back to the girls, to Jennie.
By February, she couldn't help herself. She sent the first text one night after reading yet another thread online picking Jennie apart.
Hey. Did the vitamin delivery come through?
A simple excuse. Professional. But what she really wanted to know was, are you okay?
Jennie replied with a clipped yeah. thanks. Y/N left it there, biting down the urge to say more.
But a week later, she tried again.
How's recording going?
This time, Jennie answered quickly. Slow. Company's pushing dates back, but I think you know that.
Y/N frowned at the screen, thumbs moving before she could second-guess herself. That's normal. Everyone's in limbo. Don't let it get to you.
There was a pause, five minutes, maybe more, before Jennie finally responded.
You sound sure of that.
Y/N stared at the words, her chest tightening. She typed back slowly, deliberately.
Because I am.
It should have stopped there. They weren't friends. She was staff. But she found herself checking in every few days, weaving her concern into questions about deliveries, deadlines, schedules. Jennie's answers stayed short, but she always replied.
Then, late one night, weeks later. It shifted. Her phone buzzed past midnight.
You still awake?
Y/N was half-asleep herself, phone slipping in her hand. She blinked at the words. Yeah. Why?
Jennie's response came almost instantly.
Can't sleep.
Her first instinct was to keep it light, a quick tip, a brush-off. Try chamomile tea or turn off your phone. But she stared at the screen too long, and the thought of Jennie lying awake, alone in the dorm while the others slept, pulled something loose inside her.
Want me to call? she typed before she could stop herself.
A beat.
Then one word.
Yes
The first call lasted twenty minutes. Jennie's voice was soft, lower than Y/N had ever heard it, like she was afraid to wake the night itself. Y/N did most of the talking, about the stray cat that kept wandering onto her balcony, about her terrible attempt at baking banana bread, about a Netflix show Jennie admitted she'd half-finished but couldn't focus on. Jennie laughed once, quiet and small, and it did something to Y/N's chest she couldn't explain.
When they hung up, the line clicked silent, but Y/N lay awake staring at her ceiling, her chest both heavy and strangely light.
The next night, it was Jennie who called. Then the next.
Hours blurred into hours. Sometimes Y/N found herself pacing her living room in the dark, phone pressed to her ear, Jennie murmuring about everything and nothing, memories from training days, complaints about how the dorm fridge was always empty, confessions about feeling restless even when she was exhausted.
Y/N learned to ask questions gently, without pushing too far. She asked what Jennie had eaten that day. She asked what time she'd woken up. She asked if she'd watched the moonrise, because Y/N had, and it was beautiful. Jennie would hum in response, sometimes deflecting, sometimes giving just enough that Y/N could picture her clearly. Hair tied back, knees drawn to her chest, phone clutched too tightly.
And on the nights when Jennie grew quiet, when the pauses stretched too long, when her breathing came thin and uneven, Y/N filled the silence. She told stories, half-ridiculous ones about her college days, about the neighbors who fought at 2 a.m., about anything that might ground Jennie back into the room.
Sometimes, Jennie fell asleep mid-call. Her voice would trail off, words softening until only the sound of her breathing filled Y/N's ear. Y/N never pointed it out, never teased. She just let the line stay open, listening until the rhythm steadied. Then, only then, would she end the call.
It became routine. A lifeline neither of them admitted to needing.
Y/N told herself it was just part of her job, a kind of caretaking. But when her phone stayed dark for a night, her chest felt too tight, her apartment too quiet.
And the truth, the one she couldn't name yet, was that she needed it just as much as Jennie did.
One night in May, Y/N's phone buzzed past midnight. Jennie again.
She answered before the second ring. "Hey."
But Jennie's voice wasn't soft this time. It was thin. Frayed. Shaking at the edges like it might splinter apart.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," Jennie whispered. "I can't stop— I can't stop thinking. It's so loud in my head."
Y/N's stomach dropped. Sheets slid from her lap as she shot upright in bed, heart slamming against her ribs.
"Jennie." Her own voice shook, steadied only by instinct. "Breathe. Talk to me. I'm here."
Jennie tried. She really did. The words came jagged, spilling in fragments that barely made sense. About fans calling her a disappointment. About the headlines dissecting every blink, every expressionless moment. About wondering if maybe they were right, if maybe she wasn't enough, if maybe she never had been