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isufferfromyd · 4 days ago

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A question I can’t answer

(I was inspired to write this after reading @jammatown919 ‘s bit on Mira being the black sheep of her family and how that might be handled, go check them out!)

The first time it happens, it’s so casual, a throwaway question tossed out almost absentmindedly. “Does your family listen to your music?”

Her body stiffens. It’s almost imperceptible, but she feels it. The tension coiling in her shoulders, the slight pause between breaths. The air feels thinner, her pulse louder. She’s learned to wear composure like a second skin, to glide through moments like this with ease. She’s ready, she tells herself. She’s been through this a thousand times. A practiced smile. A calm, composed answer.

A practised line on her tongue, ‘the genre isn’t their thing but they’re supportive’. Celine had warned Mira they will most likely ask and she should have something prepared.

Even if it is a lie.

They won’t know. They can’t know.

She breathes in, long and slow, letting it settle.

Then, Rumi’s hand—warm, reassuring—comes to rest on her thigh. A slight weight, a soft pressure, the gentle gesture of solidarity. Rumi leans in, the smile on her lips as effortless as it is disarming, and her voice like silk. “No, Celine hates pop.”

The interviewer laughs, as do they. A joke that lands, a shared moment of ease, the tension lifts.

The next time it happens, it feels different. She’s quicker, surer. Her mask is in place, her practiced grace already settling in the muscles of her face before the question even lands.

As Huntr/x’s fame grows, so do the interviews. They come like clockwork now, an unavoidable rhythm that pulses through their lives. When Bobby joins them, it’s like someone turned on the lights. Bobby is prepared. He’s always prepared, carrying a natural ease with him.

Every problem has a solution and no task is to great.

He makes sure they all know what to expect, just as Celine did. Makes sure Mira has a list of answers—safe ones, rehearsed ones. But he also gives the interviewers a list of questions that aren’t allowed. Some unspoken boundary, an invisible line that no one dares cross. Usually.

He lingers in the background, close enough to step in if it’s needed, a silent reminder that the team’s always ready to help. Mira feels safer with him there, like a blanket she can tug closer when things get cold.

At first, she breathes easier. Interviews become less of a performance, more of a dance. She answers with ease, with a knowingness that she’s not the only one holding the weight of it all. Rumi and Zoey are right there with her. Bobby has her back.

The question comes like a flicker in the dark, unexpected. Unwelcome.

"Was there ever jealousy from your brother when you started auditioning?"

Mira freezes. It’s like her body forgets how to move. She doesn’t know how long she stays still, but it’s long enough for everything to feel wrong. Too sharp. Too personal. Too much of everything she never wanted to share.

Her breath catches in her throat, too tight. Her thoughts scatter like glass shards—everything, everything, except a way out. She tries to hide behind her mask of composure, but she can’t. Not this time.

This isn’t a question she’s prepared for. There is no line to fall back on. No rehearsed answer that will cover the silence.

Her hands grip the edge of her seat, fingers digging into the fabric. Rumi’s eyes narrow, sharp and protective. Mira can feel the tension building in the room—the crackling electricity of a moment teetering on the edge. But before Rumi can speak, before the words even form, Bobby’s already in the room. He’s there like a presence she doesn’t see coming, but she’s never been so glad for someone’s interruption.

His arms cross, a quiet command that stills the room. He’s not angry, not yet. But it’s clear that this is not the moment for them to cross lines. It’s not a live recording. They can edit this out, and Bobby makes sure they do. The weight of the question slips away like a shadow caught in the wrong light.

Rumi stands beside him, her posture tense, a quiet agreement passing between them, a silent vow to make sure the moment disappears.

Zoey moves in beside Mira, her hand finding her shoulder, warm and steady. The touch is small, but it’s enough. Zoey’s smile is soft, an unspoken promise that everything will be okay. That she’s okay. Mira’s heart catches, that familiar ache of gratitude curling in her chest. But it’s fleeting, the weight of the moment not yet gone.

Mira meets Zoey’s eyes, flashing back a smile, but it’s tight, strained, not quite reaching her eyes. She wants to believe Zoey’s comfort, to trust that the moment has passed, that she’s safe. But she can’t.

She knows this isn’t the end of it. Not really.

There’s a deep, unspoken truth that runs through her, a quiet echo in her bones. This isn’t the last time someone will ask. Not the last time she’ll be forced to reckon with her past. The cracks are there, buried, but they’ve always been there. She can feel them waiting to split open, even if she pretends she doesn’t.

Bobby’s presence lingers in the background like a ghost, still watching. Rumi’s posture never softens, still on alert. Zoey’s hand is still warm, now on her back, a comfort, but also a weight, a reminder.

Mira takes a long, slow breath and shifts, feeling the hollow space between what she wants to say and what she can. The question lingers like an echo in the silence, far more pressing than it should be.

She knows this won’t be the end of it.

And she’s right.

Rumours spiral. The raw edges of moments from live tapings—slivers of conversation, half-heard comments—are taken out of context and put under the microscope, magnified until they’re nothing more than fractured pieces of something real. The world wants to know, to pick apart what they can’t have. They’re famous enough now that someone does the digging, and that’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Someone finds her family. The whispers spread.

They don’t talk. Not anymore. Haven’t in a long, long time.

Her family is private, well-off enough that they can secure their own discretion, but even that can’t protect them from the public. And the reaction? The fascination? That’s enough for the world to sink its teeth in.

Theories upon theories rise. Conspiracy after conspiracy. Each one more ludicrous than the last. Mira tries to ignore them, to shield herself from the endless noise, but she can’t look away. It’s like a train wreck she can’t stop staring at, even though it makes her sick.

She scrolls through her feed, already hunched over her dinner, eyes tired and unfocused from a long day of rehearsals. Her thumb pauses as she reads aloud, the words coming out sharp with the bitterness she can’t keep inside anymore.

“Someone said I stole all my family’s savings to pay for the auditioning expenses—” her voice falters on the last word, like the absurdity of it is too much to swallow.

“Mira,” Rumi says, soft and measured. She’s always careful when Mira’s like this, knowing how quickly she can snap when the world becomes too much. Knowing how volatile the subject is. “You know it’s just wild speculation. There’s no point—”

“As if I’m not sending them money back—” Mira interrupts, her voice rising despite herself. “As if they’re not paying someone to always drive them around—”

“Mira,” Rumi repeats, quieter this time. She reaches out, gently touching her arm. “It’s just nonsense, love. You can’t let it get to you.”

But Mira’s already moving on, her eyes scanning the next post. Her fingers hover over the screen before she bursts out again, this time with an incredulous laugh. “Someone said I ate my brother’s twin. What in the actual—”

Before she can go any further, Zoey’s there, like always, slipping in beside her with the quiet grace of someone who’s seen this a thousand times. She wraps her arms around Mira from behind, her soft hair brushing against Mira’s cheek as she presses in. The sudden closeness, the softness of Zoey’s voice, helps steady her racing pulse.

“Someone said I’m an American spy sent over to take over the K-Pop scene,” Zoey adds, her voice light with the ridiculousness of it all.

Mira’s jaw nearly hits the counter as the words hit her like a punchline she didn’t expect. She laughs—really laughs—for the first time in what feels like days. The absurdity of it all, the sheer randomness of Zoey’s statement, cracks through the tension like a floodgate opening.

Zoey laughs too, her easy, effortless joy contagious. The sound is warm, and Mira feels a little lighter, just from hearing it.

Rumi, too, can’t help herself, grinning as she watches the exchange unfold. “I’ve read that my mom is alive and hidden on a tropical island somewhere so I can have an ‘edgy’ backstory,” she says, moving her hands in air quotes. “Can you imagine?”

The three of them laugh, but it’s a different laugh now—lighter, freer. The tension in Mira’s shoulders slowly starts to dissipate.

Mira rolls her eyes at the attempts to distract her, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.

“I think ‘American spy’ beats ‘fake dead parent’ any day,” Zoey says, her tone mock-serious, and Mira’s surprised enough by the deadpan delivery to snort.

Rumi’s jaw drops, her expression half-disbelief, half-amusement. “Excuse me? ‘Fake dead parent’ is personal and cruel.” She crosses her arms, putting on a mock pout, and Mira has to admit, it’s a little endearing.

“Mine’s... something-ist,” Zoey says with a shrug, her grin widening as she leans into Mira’s side.

Mira shakes her head, her thoughts a little clearer now, the heat of frustration starting to cool. “Cannibalism bests both, actually,” she says with a quiet, wry smile, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

The three of them fall into a back-and-forth, teasing but familiar, like a breath they didn’t know they were holding. The humour is so effortless, so easy, that Mira forgets for a moment why she was even upset in the first place. It’s not about the rumours anymore. It’s not even about the questions or the weight they carry. It’s about this—this little corner of the world they’ve made for themselves, where they can laugh through the chaos and pretend, for just a while longer, that it’s enough.

But Mira still can’t help herself.

On nights when sleep slips through her fingers, when the weight of everything presses down like a heavy blanket, she opens her phone. She reads. She reads, even though she knows it will make her blood boil, even though it only fans the flames of frustration. The more off the mark they are, the more they twist the story, the angrier it makes her. But it’s the one that feels real, the one that strikes too close to home, that really rattles her.

The one that makes her question everything she’s worked so hard to bury.

It’s the worst kind.

She finds one at half-past two in the morning, the blue light burning her eyes, but she doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. A thread written in that flat, clinical tone, dissecting her life like it’s a case study. No wild theories. No mention of cannibalism or spy missions or secret island parents. Just quiet, pointed language. Cold logic.

It reads like someone who's been watching too closely.

She doesn’t finish it. Doesn’t have to.

She grits her teeth, the tightness in her jaw almost painful, and flings the phone into the covers like it’s burning her fingers. She can’t even look at it anymore.

She’s stomping towards the kitchen, barefoot and tense, a heat rising in her chest, the dull throb of anger still buzzing in her veins. Zoey’s a heavy sleeper, Rumi’s room is far enough down the hall that the sound of Mira’s footsteps probably won’t disturb her. At least that’s how Mira rationalises it. She doesn’t care. Not right now.

The kitchen is cold and quiet. Mira doesn’t even register the figure by the counter until she’s already halfway to the sink, muttering curses under her breath as she yanks the tap open. Water pours into the glass, but her hands are shaking just enough to make the motion more forceful than intended.

"Don’t jump," comes Zoey’s voice, quiet and unexpected behind her.

It’s enough to make Mira’s heart jolt in her chest. The glass wavers in her hand, and for a split second, she’s sure it’s about to slip, but she manages to catch it just in time. Still, water spills down her wrist, splashes over the edge, spilling onto the floor in a cascade. Mira curses again, low and frustrated, the words a little too sharp

“Sorry,” Zoey says, voice still gentle.

“Not your fault,” Mira says with a wave of her hand. The tiredness is thick in her throat. She sets the glass down and crouches to grab a towel from under the sink, but Zoey’s already kneeling beside her. “You don’t need to—“

“I want to,” Zoey replies, quiet but steady, with that soft, disarming smile that always makes Mira forget what she was mad about.

Mira pauses. Nods. “Okay. Thanks.”

They work in silence, mopping up the water. The tile is cold beneath Mira’s knees, the tension still wound tight in her chest. She steals a glance at Zoey, who hums softly to herself as she dabs at the floor. There’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet presence.

When it’s dry, Mira stands, refills her glass. She leans back against the sink, arms loosely folded, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. Zoey watches her for a beat.

“Why are you awake?” Mira asks, voice quieter now.

Zoey stretches her arms overhead, then lets them fall. “Heard Rumi. She had a nightmare.”

Mira’s expression shifts, the edges of her anger softening. Her mouth forms a silent ‘oh’.

“She’s alright,” Zoey adds quickly. “Just shaken up. She went back to sleep a few minutes ago. I was gonna grab a drink before crawling back in bed.”

Mira nods slowly. Her fingers tap against the side of the glass. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Zoey says gently. “You’ve had enough on your plate.”

Mira flinches at that, but says nothing. She sips her water, lets the silence stretch a little too long.

Zoey tilts her head. “And you? Why are you up?”

Mira hesitates. Looks away. “Couldn’t sleep.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

Zoey hears it in her tone, but she doesn’t press. She just nods, like that’s enough.

“I’ve got one more cuddle session in me,” she says lightly, voice lifting into something warmer, “if you’re interested.”

Mira looks at her, really looks—at the soft curve of Zoey’s tired smile, the mess of sleep-mussed hair, the gentle tilt of her head—and her chest tightens in a way that’s not entirely painful.

“Only if it won’t wear you out too much,” she murmurs.

Zoey flexes dramatically, pretending to show off her biceps. “I’ve got this.”

Mira laughs—quiet, reluctant, but real.

They retreat back to Mira’s room, the apartment quiet again. The sheets are still warm from before. Zoey crawls in first, curling against the far side of the bed and opening her arms without a word. Mira slides in after her, fitting herself into the space like it’s always belonged to her.

Close. Familiar. Safe.

Zoey’s fingers trace soft patterns against Mira’s arm, barely there. Mira lets her eyes fall shut, lets herself lean in, lets herself be. Just for tonight.

Sleep comes easier than it has in days.

It’s fine for a while. They’re fine. The chaos of their lives has become a routine, a kind of rhythm. They’re busy—exhausted, sure—but it’s the good kind. The kind that comes with growth, with momentum. With something real, something they’ve worked for.

It’s fine. It’s good.

“Would you describe yourself as the black sheep of your family?”

Mira’s eye twitches. Just a flicker. Just enough to show she’s heard it. But her smile doesn’t fade. She knows the drill. She knows how to roll with it. To spin it into something light, something safe.

“Yeah, I mean, they’re all in academics, and here I am.”

The crowd laughs, appreciative. It’s harmless. It’s easy.

Rumi’s lips press into a thin smile—too thin. Zoey picks up the slack, her voice light and playful as always. “Would you? Or do you come from a long line of game show hosts?”

The audience laughs again, the tension in the air gone for a moment.

The interviewer chuckles, awkward, pulling at his collar as he adjusts under the weight of the banter.

“No, I suppose I would also be one,” he says, a nervous laugh escaping.

Rumi, steers them back into safer waters. “This album, too, is... in a way, quite different. We were definitely more experimental with the music.”

And they go back to it. The music. The familiar. The safe. For about twenty minutes, it’s just about that. Just about the work they’ve poured themselves into.

But then it happens again.

“Your brother recently graduated. Do you—”

The rest of it disappears in a haze. Mira doesn’t hear the words, doesn’t register the context. It’s like the sound has been muted, and all she can feel is the way her heart lurches. He graduated?

She didn’t know. Hasn’t heard from him. Hasn’t spoken to him—them—in years. It really shouldn’t surprise her. She shouldn’t care.

But it still twists inside her. A quiet, jagged little thing carving its way through her. Uncoiling. It rips something open, something that had been so neatly tucked away before. Her chest tightens, her breath catches in the sudden weight of it. Her smile falters before she can catch it.

“Now, why would you ask her that?” Rumi’s voice cuts through the air like a blade, sharp, protective. Stripped of its usual warmth, replaced with something colder. There’s no room for charm in it. Only steel.

The interviewer blinks, clearly taken aback, stammering something about moving on.

Mira barely hears it.

Zoey’s gaze flicks to Mira, and for a moment, Mira doesn’t know if the pity in her eyes is real. Doesn’t know if Zoey means it—if it’s there at all. Her skin prickles anyway, heat rushing to her ears, her throat.

The shape of it. That faint crinkle at the corner of Zoey’s mouth that makes Mira’s heart race and her skin burn.

And something inside Mira snaps.

The way she feels the weight of it—Zoey’s gaze, Rumi’s words, the entire room holding its breath—makes Mira want to scream.

She blinks once, twice. She straightens in her seat, turns toward the man with a look that’s far too calm for how loud her thoughts are. “There a reason you’re so interested in my family?” The words are light. Even. Measured. But there's a blade under each syllable. Her expression doesn’t crack.

The man blinks, startled, fumbling for composure.

“I don’t see them sitting here with awards under their belts. And speaking of which—” She stands. Smooth. Controlled. “—I don’t see us either.”

She gets up then. The crowd doesn’t quite know what to do with itself. She flashes the audience a sharp smile and walks off set without waiting to be excused.

Behind her, she hears Rumi’s voice—low, clipped—but the words don’t land. She pushes past their team outside the stage, brushes off Bobby’s outstretched hand, and ducks into the dressing room.

The moment the door shuts, her body folds. She collapses into the small couch like the strings have been cut, elbows on her knees, head in her hands.

Fuck.

The door creaks open too soon.

Zoey reaches her first, “are you o—”

“Zoey.” Mira lifts one hand without looking up. “If you ask me if I’m okay I will break something.”

A beat.

“Okay,” Zoey says. Just that. No apology in it. No awkward pause. Just the word, and the sound of her settling nearby.

Rumi storms in next, all adrenaline and fury, and slams the door behind her. “Mira, are you okay?”

Zoey snorts. Mira groans. And that’s when she feels it: not the guilt, not the humiliation, but the absurd edge of something like laughter pushing its way through.

It was unprofessional. She knows that. Provoked or not, she should’ve held her tongue. She walked out. Embarrassed them. The network won’t have them back. Maybe no one will.

She opens her mouth. “I’m s—”

“Mira.” Zoey’s voice is sharp, sudden. Firm.

It startles Mira enough to look up. Even Rumi blinks at her in surprise.

Zoey’s eyes, though—Zoey’s eyes are steady. Bright with something unreadable, something stubborn. “If you say you’re sorry I will break something.”

And Mira—

She snorts. Involuntarily. The sound just escapes her, half-laugh, half-choke, and immediately she wants to bite it back. But the way Rumi’s mouth twitches, the way Zoey’s gaze softens—

She can’t.

They’re looking at her like she hasn’t just lit a match to their whole PR strategy. Like she hasn’t just undone months of media training in ten seconds flat. They’re looking at her like they love her.

She doesn’t deserve it.

Rumi reaches over and flicks her ear.

“Ow—what the hell?”

“You were wallowing,” Rumi says simply, arms folded. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I wasn’t wallowing.”

“You so were,” Zoey says, crossing the short distance to Mira and folding herself into her space like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Mira sighs as Zoey tucks herself around her, arms warm and grounding.

Mira leans into her, just a little.

Zoey presses a kiss to her temple. “Bobby will handle it.”

Rumi sits down on the armrest beside them. “He always does.”

And he will. Mira knows that. Knows she’s not really the storm anymore—not with them here to catch the fallout. But right now, she’s still in it. The shame. The ache. The stupid, stupid twist in her chest from a name that hadn’t crossed her lips in years.

She exhales, long and slow, into Zoey’s collarbone.

They sit like that, tangled up on the dressing room couch, too tired to move and too wired to be alone. The silence stretches, but it’s not tense anymore. It’s held. Steady. Safe.

“Still,” Mira murmurs, the weight not quite gone. “I wish I hadn’t said it.”

Rumi shrugs. “He deserved worse.”

Zoey hums her agreement, cheek pressed to Mira’s hair. “He was lucky you walked out. Rumi was about to bite his head off. And I was about to let her,” she adds, tone playful but edged with sincerity.

The notion of Zoey ‘letting’ Rumi do anything pulls a surprised huff of a laugh from Mira. Rumi laughs too, warm and knowing, and Mira catches the way Zoey’s eyes narrow—not hurt, exactly. Offended, maybe. Dramatically so.

“I can take Rumi,” Zoey insists, entirely unconvincing.

“Uh huh.” Rumi arches a brow, that lazy, dangerous smirk slipping into place. “Sure, babe.”

“I can totally take you,” Zoey says, puffing up, throwing up both fists like she’s about to start something.

Mira, still curled into her side, barely lifts a hand and pokes her in the ribs.

Zoey yelps.

And glares.

“I said I could take Rumi, not both of you.”

Rumi snorts. “Strategic retreat, huh?”

Zoey huffs. Mira grins.

The air has lightened again, but not in the hollow way that sometimes follows tension. It’s real. Easy. Mira finds herself sinking into it, warmth spreading slow through her chest.

The weight’s still there, tucked somewhere behind her ribs—but it doesn’t press as hard. Not when Zoey is still wrapped around her, and Rumi’s still within reach, arms crossed, smirking like she owns the world.

They’re fine. Not untouched. But together. And for now, that’s enough.

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #polytrix #rumi x mira x zoey #hurt/comfort #fanfic #my writing

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