Drawn to Magnet

The sun is setting, and the shade of gold sprayed across the sky gradually darkens. Reflected in Valentine’s blue eyes, it is as if night’s shadow is creeping slowly, taking its time devouring what is left of the day.

She is walking along the sparsely occupied sidewalk. The color of sunset glimmers against her long black hair, adorned with well-laced hot pink streaks. With her every step, the lanyard around her neck sways by a small motif at the front of her white crop, one that depicts a cute cherry fruit. Had it still been in the afternoon, her light blue jeans and white shoes would probably look no different from the sky and clouds themselves.

But in this bustling city, who would stop and cease their pace to appreciate an ordinary girl’s choice of fashion?

Not that the attention of another — or their unattentiveness, in this case — has ever bothered Valentine. Compared to her routine up until recently, she feels that she has gained more recognition than ever. Not a lot, but it’s getting there.

“There it is.”

Slowing down her steps, the black-haired girl arrives in front of a small flower shop. A gentle fragrance wafts toward her; the floral scent blends with the smell of cooling pavement. As she approaches the shop, what seems to be the last customer leaves with a blooming bouquet in their hands and an equally blooming smile on their face.

Without a doubt, a satisfied patron.

“Thank you. Please come again.”

A familiar voice drifts from inside, sending the delighted customer off.

Valentine steps toward the entrance and rests her shoulder against the doorframe. At this point, this has become an inseparable part of her everyday life. To wait for a certain someone while standing on this exact spot, at this exact time, before they leave together for their little “joint project” later tonight.

“Looks like your flower business is flourishing, huh?”

She asks casually, in full consciousness picking those specific words just for the fun of it. A chuckle comes from inside, then an answer.

“Just the same as usual. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Surrounded by blossoms of all sizes and colors, a red-haired girl is working on closing the shop. Her cardigan wraps warmly around her delicate shoulders, and her appropriately chosen floral-patterned skirt almost brushes against the floor. Her movements are swift and efficient, proof that she is well-accustomed to this work. Brushing a stray strand of hair back her ear, the red-haired girl waves at Valentine.

“I’ll be done soon. Wait for me, okay?”

“Of course. It’s not like I can practice on my own without the awesome Sumi, my own and only partner.”

Her answer draws a brief laugh from the other girl.

Sumi, the owner of the flower shop, cleans up the shop as quickly as she said. Sweeping scattered leaves and petals, changing the water for some plants, repositioning the vases — until she comes across a row of flowers blooming on the side.

Her gaze lingers, yet her mind wanders. Behind the counter, a leatherbound book sits among other things related to running the shop. Within the pages are sketches born from her dreams, of two faceless figures she always sees when she closes her eyes at night, strangers brought together by an invisible string. She searches through the bluish petals and the deeper pink, then settles on a cluster of fading purple in the back row, the lilacs.

By the time she comes to it, her fingers are already wrapped around a single stem of lilac — and her chest settles. With careful precision, she picks up the purple bloom and finally heads for the door.

“Ready to go?” Valentine straightens her pose as Sumi flips the store sign to “CLOSED.”

Having completed the last step of closing up by locking the door behind her, Sumi gives her a small nod before turning to face Valentine. For a brief moment, it feels as though there are only the two of them standing on this gold-showered pavement, surrounded by a blend of faint floral fragrance. Then, unhurried yet at the same time a little bit shy, Sumi holds out the purple flower in her hand toward Valentine.

Her smile is calm and reserved, although a slight flush of pink blooms across her fair cheeks. The hand in which she holds the lilac is steady, certain that it will be met with acceptance.

Just as always.

“Thanks.”

Valentine returns her smile, and for sure, takes the flower from Sumi’s hand. Sweetness floats from the petals and wafts to her face. During their brief exchange, their fingers had slightly brushed against each other, and the cool stem of the flower somehow felt warmer.

It is funny how those close to each other can one day drift apart, and those who never knew one another can one day be drawn together. For Sumi and Valentine, their meeting feels both unexpected and preordained; the first because they were strangers who just happened to live in the same town, and the latter because something magical had connected them in dreams long before they understood what it meant.

But now that the lilac has switched hands, time that seems to have temporarily stopped turns its cogs again at last. With a slight tilt of her head, Valentine gestures at Sumi to come with her.

“Let’s get going.”

By the time they hit the road, the sun has almost completely set. Streetlights begin to glow as houses and buildings all light up one by one, turning the city into a sea of lights as the mauve sky envelops all.

Between the two of them, Valentine appears to be the more spirited one. She walks a little ahead of her companion; shoes making an unnamed rhythm with every step. Her lanyard swings left and right in front of her; a fresh lilac rests between her fingers.

Behind her, Sumi is following closely. She maintains her own pace, not in a rush to catch up with the other, but neither is she lagging behind. Her floral-patterned skirt gently sways along her steady steps.

Each seems to be walking to their own beat, yet at the same time, their contrasting demeanors make for a flawless synchronization.

Having been walking for a while, Valentine turns her gaze toward the red-haired girl beside her, who is humming a familiar melody under her soft breath.

“You’ve memorized the tunes,” she remarks. “The other day, you were struggling a bit to get the chorus right.”

“What can I say? I’ve been humming the same song all day in the shop.” Sumi laughs; her eyes become crescent-shaped. “My goal today is to make fewer than five mistakes during practice.”

“Five? Wasn’t it seven yesterday? It’s going down very slowly, isn’t it?”

“Sssh, don’t rush me.” The red-haired girl pretends to frown. “I may be slow, but I’m steadily improving.”

“Fine, I won’t argue with that.” Valentine shrugs. “But don’t worry too much about it. There are two of us here, so if one makes a mistake, the other can help to make it right.”

“I’ll be counting on you then,” says Sumi. “By the way, how is it going with the lyrics? You said you’re close to wrapping it up.”

“Hmm… I’m still not sure about the bridge part. I thought it’s turned out well, but when I tried to sing the entire song, somehow it didn’t feel right.”

“Let’s give it another try today. Maybe you’ll get a stroke of inspiration when we’re– Ah!”

Just then, a rushing passerby bumps into Sumi. The two similarly stumble, except Sumi ends up dropping some of her belongings when her bag is pulled in the collision. The passerby frantically apologizes before breaking out into a rush once more, leaving the two girls at a loss, not knowing whether to complain or simply laugh it off.

“...At least he should help pick up your stuff first before running away.” Valentine sighs, crouching down to help Sumi gather her items. “What? Does he have a tummyache or something?”

“Shush, now, Valentine. He may have an urgent business to attend to.”

“Perhaps…” The black-haired girl wipes her forehead. “Geez, it sure is warm today. Hey, what do you have there?”

She points at a leatherbound book Sumi has just picked up as she returns to her feet. The latter looks at the book in her hands, smiles, then resumes her steps as they walk side by side once more.

“Oh, you know, just my old notebook,” Sumi says, her fingers tracing the worn-out edges. “I sketched something again during my break earlier. Would you like to see?”

“Sure. What were you sketching?”

The corners of Sumi’s lips curl up. She brushes her hair to the back of her ears, looking a bit bashful and apologetic.

“Us.”

She flips open the slightly yellowed pages. When her hands stop, a drawing of two silhouettes in different dresses that complement each other appears in front of them. One wears a gentle, soft blue that seems to blend into its surroundings. Meanwhile, the other is drawn wearing a hot pink dress, so vivid is the color that it seems to leap out of the paper.

Valentine was just about to point it out when Sumi beat her to it.

“I’ve been thinking…” Her index finger caresses the pink silhouette. “The color is similar to the streaks in your hair. You should look good in this getup.”

Saying this, her hand moves from the book to Valentine’s hair, tracing a hot pink tuft of hair flowing down her shoulder as if comparing the real thing with her drawing.

Valentine does not flinch. Instead, she stares at the sketches and points at the other silhouette.

“Really? I think the other one fits you, too,” she says. “Your color should be lighter, just like–”

She looks at Sumi from head to toe.

“–Like the pale color you always pick for your clothes and accessories. I remember the light-colored ribbon you had on the other day. Against your red hair, it looks like you were stepping out of sunrise.”

The way Valentine picks her wording, albeit not on purpose, sends a spark of warmth in Sumi’s heart. At the same time, however, it does not come as a surprise to her. For some reason, it feels like she has long since pictured it in her mind — the two of them, side by side, donning this exact choice of colors. She has seen it in her dreams, far too many times, even before their fateful encounter that night, even when they were still strangers standing on opposite ends of that magical lake.

Sumi looks down at the open page of her notebook. Following a brief hesitation, she adds a quick wash of color in the margin, exactly how her dreams have foretold. Then, she adds a shade of violet between the two figures, a faint band connecting the pair of silhouettes.

“...The shapes keep coming back like this,” she murmurs. “Layers… Like flower petals. Something that moves when we turn.”

The more she studies what she draws on the page, the more familiar it feels to her, like how the two of them are always pictured in her sleep, two incomplete figures by the shore of a moonlit water.

But Sumi does not voice her thoughts aloud. Instead, she draws a small crescent and a flower near the neckline of the silhouette that is supposed to be Valentine, finally resting her pencil.

“And maybe something here, too. Like a little charm.”

Having listened to her companion all this time, and seeing the sketch slowly expanding before her eyes, Valentine lets out a soft laugh.

“We haven’t even completed a full song yet, but you’re already planning a whole stage for us, aren’t you?” she says, making it sound like a joke yet not a hint of tease in her voice. “Alright, if we ever actually get there, I’ll leave all the aesthetics to you. I trust you to make us all sparkly and glowing under the spotlight.”

Despite Valentine’s lighthearted remark, Sumi can see Valentine’s eyes lingering on the crescent and petals on the paper. It is as if the drawing has already become real in her mind, and she is showing it off in front of a crowd that has yet to exist.

She slowly closes her notebook and tucks it away.

“It’s just a story my family used to tell.” She says, almost as if talking to herself rather than Valentine. “About a flower that only blooms under the moon in the middle of a lake. That is…”

She swallows her remaining words. Even though they have floated right to the tip of her tongue, she ends up not letting them out, sealing them with a small, secret smile instead.

“‘I’ve heard this story a lot when I was younger. Perhaps that’s why the colors won’t leave me alone.”

A faint floral scent drifts in the air between them, one that floats from the lilac in Valentine’s hand. She smells it and becomes quiet, not realizing how the scent and Sumi’s words have steadied the budding restlessness in her heart. It was nothing but a mundane act, closing a book as the two of them continued walking down the road. But to Valentine, Sumi’s presence is woven into the arriving night, holding onto her before her mind races too far ahead with possibilities that have yet to happen.

Sumi does not elaborate on her words. As they walk, she observes how Valentine quietly cradles the lilac stem in her hands. Recalling the brief warmth shared between them when their fingers brushed against each other earlier, something wraps her heart in contentment, though she cannot find the word to name this feeling.

The streetlights draw lines and lines of pale gold shimmering down the pavement. Gradually, the hum and strum of the bustling city seem to grow distant. In its place, only the sound of their steady footsteps remains, ferrying them to a little studio in a less crowded part of the metropolis.

***

The hustle and bustle of the city’s nightlife is curbed into hushes. Inside the studio, time seems to move more slowly than in the outside world, calm and peaceful. Warm light spreads from a corner of the room where a little lamp is sitting on the table. Caught in its gentle shade of light is a spread of sheet music, a few pencils, a worn notebook, and a stray headphone cable.

Upon entering the studio, Sumi sets her bag down by a lone chair by the table. Her movement is considerably composed when measured up against Valentine, who immediately starts going back and forth across the studio — checking the mic stand, setting the mic’s height, flicking this and that switch. At some point, the black-haired girl remembers to rest the lilac in her hand on the desk, which soon fades into the background while swallowed in the warm light.

One can say the two girls, each to their own person, fall into their own natural rhythm. Nevertheless, their two contrasting rhythms somehow work well together like an unexpected mix of melodies.

Sitting by the table lamp, Sumi flips open her notebook. The two silhouettes she showed to Valentine earlier are only one among the numerous sketches she has penned into the pages. There is one page already half-filled with small drawings — of hemlines, sleeves fluttering about, notes about which color should go where, all of which carry a theme related to moonlight or lake water.

Sumi picks up her pencil and puts the tip on the paper, adding tiny details where she feels they are needed. The same melodies quietly drip from her lips, the humming of a nameless song she’s carried with her all day. In the corner of the page, the word “Lunarelia” appears. She has written it once, then traced it over and over again beneath her fingers, as if assessing how it belongs on the page.

Valentine, at last, settles down on another chair nearby. Watching Sumi doing her own thing, she leans forward, elbows on her knees, and face on her hands, listening to the quiet humming. Words appear in her mind that she adds to Sumi’s lyric-less melodies. Sometimes they catch on certain notes, sometimes they bloom into bursts of longing, making parts of the lyrics.

Despite the wordless exchange, the gestures shared between them seem both practiced yet alive. Like moving in the same breath, Valentine hums along with her lyrics, as if testing the harmony, while Sumi sometimes pauses her hand holding the pencil to listen to her companion, then makes her own attempt to meet Valentine’s timing. The melodies seem to travel from the book to the lyrics and back again, a certain intimacy impossible to describe even with all the words in a dictionary.

At some point, a full song begins to take shape. Certain phrases feel heavier than the others, and Sumi feels herself hesitating slightly. Perhaps her heart is still trying to digest the emotions conveyed behind these words, and what it truly means. Her hand slows after a certain line, one that she has circled in the page of her book next to an unfinished sketch of a stage outfit.

She isn’t sure why this specific line catches her attention so much.

Valentine, noticing her hesitation, leans closer; her lanyard briefly glimmers as it hangs from her neck, catching the light.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Glancing at the notebook, her eyes scan across the unfinished designs, then briefly stop at the word “Lunarelia” written in the corner. She does not question the word, only smoothing the halted rhythm in her warm voice like a quiet suggestion.

“Touch me once again…”

“Magnet” — That is the title of the song. This isn’t the first time they’re practicing this song; in fact, they’ve practiced enough to memorize the lyrics and tunes by heart, to unconsciously start humming anytime, anywhere — with or without lyrics — a testament to how intimately they have let themselves be embraced by the melodies.

But as they are perfecting their craft, good enough to be called performance-quality, some parts are bound to become an obstacle they need to overcome. Most of the time, these obstacles come in the form of notes they are unable to hit, lines that are easy to mispronounce, but these technical aspects are all things that can be cleared with determination and practice.

The trickiest of all are intangible matters related to the heart.

“Touch me once again…”

The line is short and simple, yet Sumi always finds herself faltering when reaching this part. Not because she cannot hit the notes or articulate the words properly, but because whenever she attempts to sing this particular phrase, an unknown force always seems to hold her in.

She struggles to describe this feeling. If she must choose a few words to explain, she can only say that singing this part makes her feel as if a layer of her heart is being peeled open, a layer that shields a specific part of herself that she isn’t yet ready to reveal.

Thus, her voice always wanes before the mic stand. Not wanting to disclose her predicament, the red-haired girl pretends to look down, trying to make it look as if she is reading the lyrics in her notes.

But Valentine notices her struggle.

There are various ways one can react to such circumstances. Some may simply brush past it, resuming practice like nothing is the matter. Others may try to joke about it, attempting to lighten the atmosphere. And there are also people who may press on the matter, whether out of genuine concern or frustration, thinking that they could find a solution to their partner being stuck on the same part over and over again.

Valentine, however, does neither. Without a word, she simply pauses and leans closer to Sumi’s side. Softly, she repeats the line for her, not in the way someone would normally sing, but as if she is speaking this line specifically for Sumi.

“Touch me once again…”

Just like that, she lets the words linger between them, and a moment passes in the little studio.

“...Let’s try it again.” Valentine rests her hand on Sumi’s shoulder, just briefly, before returning to adjust the mic.

Their contact lasts not even for a full second, yet that seemingly fleeting gesture not only guides Sumi to adjust her posture and breath, but also sends a message to her — that the two of them are this close with each other, a fact that only now she becomes aware of.

She does not move again, and they run by that very section once more.

“My love for you is not a dream, no matter how far it may seem.”

Soon, they are approaching that part where she always falters. Sumi breathes in during a brief pause between the lines and lets her voice bring the melodies aloud.

“Touch me once again…”

She makes it through that line.

“...You know I will always give in.”

Yet immediately after, her chest tightens as soon as the words leave her mouth. That split-second hesitation makes her come in a beat too soon, and the end of the line falls before it lands.

She stops, and a weighted silence descends upon them.

Sumi does not even have to turn her head to know that Valentine is looking at her. It isn’t a simple glance in which a singer checks on her partner’s technique. She really looks at her. But when Valentine finally speaks to her, there is neither castigation nor curious pressure.

Her voice is low and softens when it reaches her.

“You’ve got this,” is the only thing she says. “One more time?”

This remark alone seems to work like a spell. The warm light, the faint noises outside, even the air flowing inside the room, everything feels as though it is slowly, gently closing in toward the single spot the two of them share.

Sumi unconsciously curls her fingers at her sides, somewhat clutching at her floral-patterned skirt.

When Valentine counts them in again, her voice sounds like it has dropped even lower.

“Touch me once again; you know I will always give in

I don't need anything, anything but you

Then and now and forevermore…”

And Sumi breaks once again, right before they make it to the sustained final line. The word “forevermore” slips from her on the last step. Her breath catches; she cannot even fathom what expression she is making at this moment.

But Valentine is right there with her, just as always.

“One more.”

With those words, Sumi finally understands why it is so difficult for her to get over a seemingly simple song lyric.

Their meetings in the dreams, their fateful encounter, the sketches of dresses meant for a stage in a future that has yet to arrive — Remembering all of these, she can no longer pretend that this particular lyric for this particular song belongs to anyone else but them.

“One more” — With Valentine’s encouragement, Sumi takes a deep breath, then sings again.

“I don't need anything, anything but you

Then and now and forevermore…”

Alas, her breath falls all the same before the final notes. A slight frustration begins to creep into Sumi’s heart; she frowns.

“Almost.” Valentine steps closer to her side. “Don’t rush to the end of it. Try letting your breath sit lower. I’ll be right here.”

There is no impatience in her voice, only certainty — trust that her partner will reach her. She adjusts the mic stand a bit lower so that Sumi does not have to reach. With that set, she softly nudges at the red-haired girl, wordlessly sending a signal for Sumi not to be so tense.

“Again?”

Sumi nods, and melodies drift within the studio — only to fall again.

It has nothing to do with technique. In the heavy silence that follows, she can hear it over and over inside her head, how the line always thins before she can complete it. She thought her focus had sharpened this time, so why…?

At this moment, she meets Valentine’s gaze.

“You can hear it, can’t you?” she asks quietly. “The song wants to keep going.”

Sumi blinks.

“Let it. Don’t cut it off.”

Sumi’s throat tightens. She nods, gripping the edge of the mic stand. A moment later, she lets it go.

Understanding even that minuscule gesture, Valentine smiles subtly.

“Again?”

She is met with a steady “Mm,” and back they return to the starting point. This time, they are drawing their breaths almost at the same time.

“Anything but you.”

And that person really is standing only inches away from her.

“One more.”

Valentine’s low and steady voice is like an anchor preventing a ship from drifting astray. She stays close, shoulders brushing with Sumi, standing in the same spot and sharing the same pool of lamplight. Even the smallest shift between them causes their skirt and jeans to brush against each other.

At this moment, nothing else seems to matter. The studio feels just like a concept; the walls, furniture, and equipment have all moved away, leaving the two of them inside this small circle of light with a lone mic stand before them. The noises of nightlife waking in the city are gone; the only sound that remains is their combined voices.

Sumi sings along with the restarting music. Word by word, each syllable falls gracefully from her lips, smooth and steady unlike her previous attempts.

“I’ll be right here.” — The warmth of Valentine’s hand on her shoulder from earlier gives her a footing to step on. At last, that familiar line arrives.

“I don’t need anything, anything but you…”

And Valentine’s presence — quiet, expectant, unwavering — is right next to her.

The air rapidly tightens. It isn’t fear but something akin to an unspoken longing, impatience within expectation.

When the last line approaches once more, Sumi feels as if the words are about to slip from her grasp again, but something inside her instinctively pulls her back.

Then, Valentine’s voice joins her at last.

“Then and now and forevermore.”

A final repetition arrives, the very end of this “Magnet” drawing them together.

Sumi recites the lines smoothly. Her earlier struggles seem like a thing from yesterday; the harmony with which they enter the last verse calls for no signal, no instruction or warning, just two singers performing in flawless synergy. Words flow from Sumi’s mind to the tip of her tongue. The fragile notes, the unreaching breath — they have all come together, bound together, steadily heading toward the finish line.

Without thinking, she turns aside, immediately meeting Valentine’s gaze that has already been waiting for her.

Their voices blend and give shape to the final verse.

“Then and now and forevermore—”

There is no hesitation, no exaggeration. The strength, the poise, the refinement— Everything comes together just right; no more, no less, as though this was meant to be from the beginning.

It explains that quiet spark that came to life when their eyes met that night at the side of the road. Suddenly, their presence in each other’s dreams in the past was no longer surreal.

Because now, they know that these were all necessary parts of a puzzle, one known as “the present.”

***

Their voices thin and fade, but the resonance lingers. The desk lamp hums quietly, the interface lights blink red and green, and there they remain by each other’s side, in this small space untouchable by the rest of the world.

It isn’t until a long while later that Sumi realizes how still she has been. Breaking out of her statue-like state feels almost strange; she is too conscious of the way her fingers relax, her arms hovering near the music stand. Her body is still angled toward Valentine instead of facing the mic squarely. On the wall, their silhouettes are painted against the warm light.

Similarly, Valentine hasn’t stepped back either. Her eyes still rest on Sumi, neither startled nor flustered, but steady and open. There is a wordless conviction in her gaze, and Sumi can feel it — along with the echo of their harmony staying in the depth of her heart.

Including today, who knows how many times they have practiced this song over and over again. But this is the first time they have managed to carry on all the way until the end, both of them, not in a way they would perform for an imaginary audience in the future, but for the two of them in this small space.

“Hmph…”

Between the two, it is unclear who lets out a sound first, but once that soundless laugh escapes, a wave of relief washes over them in an instant. The stillness is broken at last, but not the intimacy of the moment. If anything, it only serves to reinforce the realization they just mutually shared.

“What was that?”

“Good practice.”

“Great chemistry we’re having.”

Neither one of these remarks is said in that moment.

Inside the studio, the desk remains sitting partially in the shadow. The purple lilac rests quietly; the petals catching a sliver of the lamplight. There, several sheets of paper lie scattered, pages containing the lyrics of “Magnet” in Valentine’s handwriting. And then there is Sumi’s old journal, where sketches of two silhouettes in dresses that have yet to come are standing side-by-side, just like the two of them now.

Will that imaginary stage performance come to fruition?

Though they have yet to secure the future, they know now that moving forward from here, when the time comes for them to bring this song, “Magnet,” in front of others, they will come back to the memory of this day, in this studio, unchanging, regardless of how many times they sing this song. After so many years sleeping, only to wake with questions, they finally discovered the bridge between dreams and reality, what connects the lake, the ache, the inherited memories with the present, and that there is a place for them to let these silent thoughts live.

And with that, the lone word written in the corner of the journal no longer exists as a mere idea, but a center title.

“Lunarelia.”