The Mirror Between Us
Chapter 8: The Mirror Between Us
The confrontation didn’t come in the practice room.
Or the hallway.
It came in the quiet.
Late one evening, after most of the trainees had gone, Xinyi stayed behind to run through one last set. The mirrors gleamed under the soft amber lights, her reflection splitting into countless versions of herself.
She hadn’t noticed him standing by the door.
Not until the music stopped.
“You’re improving fast.”
Her breath caught.
Minjae.
She turned slowly. His tone was calm, his hands folded behind him like always, but his eyes–his eyes didn’t match his posture.
They were searching.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He took a step closer. Then another. He didn’t enter the room fully–just stood at the threshold, like stepping in might break something too fragile to name.
“I watched your evaluation. And your rehearsals.”
She nodded once. “A lot of people did.”
Silence stretched between them, taut as wire.
Then he asked, voice quiet:
“Do you remember what I used to call you when we were younger?”
Her stomach dropped. Her fingers curled against her thighs.
Yichen.
The name lived in the back of her throat like a bruise. Her eyes didn’t leave his.
“You knew?”
“I wasn’t sure. At first. But then I saw how you held your breath before each turn, like you were still bracing to be told you weren’t enough.”
Xinyi said nothing.
Minjae’s voice faltered, just slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never asked,” she whispered.
The words hit him harder than he expected. He looked away for the first time.
“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” she added, more gently now. “Back then, I was just a mistake in your house. A shadow at the dinner table.”
“You weren’t,” he said sharply. Then quieter, “I just didn’t know how to see you.”
Another silence.
Then he asked, voice low:
“Are you happy?”
Xinyi blinked. The question was so simple, so undeserved, it cracked something open.
She looked down at her reflection–barefaced, sweat-damp, real.
“I think… I’m starting to be.”
Minjae stepped inside.
Only one step.
“Then let me stay. Not as your brother. Just as someone who wants to see you become who you are.”
Her eyes stung.
She didn’t say yes.
She didn’t need to.
The mirror didn’t separate them anymore.
They didn’t speak again that night–not with words. But something shifted. A closeness that had been tethered by memory now loosened into something softer. More dangerous.
After that night, Minjae found more reasons to linger near the studio. Not because he needed to. But because he wanted to watch her–how she stretched before practice, how she hummed when she thought no one was listening. She wore the smallest smiles now. Like the world still frightened her, but no longer silenced her.
And Xinyi… she began to notice when he walked into the room. Her chest would flutter without permission. She’d find her eyes following him. Not out of fear, but longing. Minjae had seen her without asking her to explain. And stayed.
It was the smallest things at first. A water bottle left near her bag with her favorite tea. A note scribbled in rushed handwriting: “Eat something.”
Late one evening, when the rain pinned everyone indoors, they found themselves alone in the trainee lounge. He stood near the window, watching droplets chase each other across the glass.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said quietly, a teasing lilt in her voice.
“I’m not supposed to feel this way either,” he replied without looking at her.
Xinyi’s breath hitched.
Minjae turned. For once, his guard was down. There was something naked in his expression–uncertainty, affection, maybe even fear.
“I know what this looks like,” he continued. “I know what people would say. That I’m your brother. That it’s wrong. That our parents would–”
“They’d disown us,” she whispered.
He nodded slowly. “Probably.”
“But you’re not really my brother,” she said, and the words trembled in the space between them. “Not by blood. Not by bond. Not after everything.”
He took a step closer. “I was cruel to you. I ignored you when you needed someone most.”
“You see me now.”
“That doesn’t erase the past.”
“No,” she said, voice steady. “But it gives us a choice.”
They stood there in silence, the rain still tapping its rhythm. Forbidden, yes. Messy. Complicated. But also real.
Minjae reached out–not to hold her, not yet–but just to let his fingers graze hers.
“I don’t care what they say,” he said.
And for the first time, Xinyi didn’t pull away.
She looked up at him, eyes searching. The room was quiet save for the rain and her heartbeat thudding like a drum. Minjae’s hand lingered near hers, unsure, until Xinyi leaned forward just slightly.
That was all it took.
He kissed her.
Soft. Brief. Barely there–but enough to send a shiver through her spine. Enough to make her forget the years between them, the lines they weren’t supposed to cross.
When they pulled apart, she was breathless.
“I–” she started, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t think it would happen so fast.”
Minjae gave a small, crooked smile. “Me neither.”
She turned away for a moment, her hand covering her mouth, still feeling the ghost of him.
That night, curled in bed, she called Suwei.
The second Suwei picked up, Xinyi whispered, “I think I kissed him.”
A pause.
Then: “YOU WHAT?!”
Xinyi yelped and held the phone away from her ear as Suwei’s voice rose several octaves.
“Oh my god, you kissed Minjae?! MINJAE?”
“Shhh! Not so loud!” Xinyi hissed, burying her face in the pillow.
Suwei was shrieking now. “Girl. Girl. You’ve been pining for him in secret for how long and now you’re telling me it just happened? Just–like–boom–kissed?!”
“He kissed me!” Xinyi groaned.
Suwei made a noise like she was combusting on the other end of the line. “I swear I’m so happy for you I’m gonna explode. This is insane. This is forbidden K-drama levels of hot and tragic and romantic–”
“Suwei!”
Suwei laughed, then quieted, her voice softening. “I mean it. I’m proud of you. For letting yourself feel something good. For choosing it. Even if it’s scary.”
Xinyi exhaled, eyes misting over. “Thanks. I needed that.”
“You’ve got this, Xinyi. No matter what comes next.”