BITTERSWEET (Vsoo)

Jisoo

"Smile, Jisoo-yah. It's a new chapter," my mom said, turning in the front seat to glance back at me with her usual bright optimism.

I managed a small smile as I leaned my head against the window, watching as Seoul's skyline blurred into quieter suburbs. "I am smiling," I mumbled, though my voice betrayed the nerves fluttering in my chest.

My dad chuckled from the driver's seat. "Your mom cried when we left Busan, and now she's acting like we just won the lottery."

"It's not about the city," Mom huffed playfully. "It's about the possibilities."

"Possibilities and high rent," Sunoo muttered next to me, squished between a box of my trophies and a suitcase full of plushies. "Honestly, Jisoo, did you bring your entire room or open a plush toy museum?"

"They have names, thank you very much," I said, swatting his arm. "You're lucky they didn't suffocate you in your sleep."

"I'd welcome the escape," he replied with a dramatic sigh. "You've tortured me since kindergarten. I still have trauma from the time you painted my nails in my sleep."

"Real men wear pink," I shot back, grinning now despite my anxious heart.

Truth was, even with Sunoo's constant teasing and my parents' cheerful chatter, the thought of starting over scared me more than I wanted to admit. Busan had been home. My school, my dance crew, my stage—it was all behind me now. I clung to the idea that maybe, just maybe, Seoul would have something just as special waiting for me.

We finally pulled into the driveway of our new house—a sleek, two-story modern place with huge windows and a pretty little garden wrapped in white picket fencing.

"Oh, wow," I whispered, leaning forward. "It's... really pretty."

Mom beamed. "Right? Your father and I wanted somewhere peaceful but close to the business district."

"I still say we should've let Jisoo pick her room before we loaded in," Dad said as he parked. "Now it's survival of the fastest."

"I heard that!" I shouted, grabbing a box and dashing up the steps before Sunoo could react.

"Hey!" he shouted, stumbling out of the car. "Not fair, you sneaky little troll!"

"Too late!" I yelled over my shoulder, bursting through the front door.

The air inside smelled like fresh paint and lemon-scented wood polish. It was airy, full of light, and full of potential. I bounded up the stairs and sprinted down the hall to the room I'd already claimed in my mind during our last visit—the one with the big window overlooking the street and a tiny balcony.

"This one's mine!" I shouted triumphantly.

Sunoo appeared a second later, arms full of boxes and face full of betrayal. "You used childlike innocence and cute pouting to distract us. Again."

"You're just mad I'm smarter."

"I'm mad you cheated!"

From downstairs, Mom called up, "You two better not break anything!"

Dad added, "Except each other's pride. Go ahead and smash that."

I laughed, flopping onto the bed with a sigh of relief. The mattress was firm but comfy, and the sunlight streamed in golden through the window. This room... it already felt like mine.

Later, after helping unload the rest of the car and surviving a light scolding for "arguing while holding glassware," I finally closed my bedroom door and took a deep breath. Silence. Peace.

I unpacked slowly, turning the room from bare to me. My posters went up first—framed shots of my favorite dancers mid-spin, a vintage poster from my first-ever competition, and a hand-drawn one my old best friend made that said: "Dance like everyone's watching—and you still don't care."

My medals and ribbons hung beside the desk, shimmering in the evening light. I arranged my plushies on the bed, placing my lucky bear, Dobby, right in the center. He'd been with me through every competition, every stage, every moment I'd wanted to run and didn't.

As I unpacked my last box, I pulled out the photo I loved the most: a snapshot of me in mid-leap during last year's regional finals—arms wide, face glowing, the crowd a blur in the background. First place. That was the night I realized I didn't just love dancing. I needed it.

"I wonder if they have a dance team," I murmured, setting the photo on the windowsill. "They better. Or I'll start my own."

I hung up my practice schedule above my desk and slipped on my Bluetooth speaker, letting a soft instrumental beat flow through the room. My body responded instinctively—I did a lazy pirouette, balancing perfectly before sinking into a smooth stretch.

"I'm gonna own this year," I whispered to myself, determination settling in my chest. "No more hiding in the back."

I sat at the edge of my bed, looking out at the quiet street bathed in orange light. A few kids biked by. A man walked his dog. It felt peaceful, like a lull before something bigger.

I didn't know what kind of people I'd meet at my new school. I didn't know what they'd think of the shy girl who turned into a different person when the music started.

But I did know this: I was ready.

I had my dreams. I had my music. And no one—not even some cold-hearted Seoul boy with an attitude problem—was going to stop me from dancing like I was born to.