babe? ● blackpink oneshots collection

i wish you cared, do you? - jensoo

Jennie sat quietly beside Jisoo. She really wished Jisoo came by not because Chaeyoung, her step sister, insisted on replacing her to watch the movie with Jennie since she had something else to do instead. Jennie exhaled, although the burden in her heart didn't follow the flow of her breath out.

As a friend of—almost exclusively only—Chaeyoung—and not her step sister, Jennie was infuriated at how cold Jisoo was towards her. Those times where Jennie sat secretly with glistening eyes on their house's couch while Chaeyoung was not around, Jisoo would only stare. She didn't know how to plead love, so Jennie decided to keep her crush a silent feeling. Especially when Jisoo seemed so uninterested, so without care and love, not even as a friend after they had known each other for so long.

The light on the screen across the two started glowing brighter and brighter. The deafening sounds from the movie didn't break the freezing distance between the closeness of the two. Both seemed concentrating on the movie, as if they were ready to be critics anytime soon. But, truly, Jennie dreamed of holding Jisoo's hands like how those imaginations always crossed Jennie's mind in ungodly hours. Though then, those dreams felt blasphemous, with Jisoo sitting so close and yet impossibly far.

Not being able to hold her longing, Jennie glanced sideways. The silver light from the screen painted delicate shadows on Jisoo's face—soft, pensive, unmoved. She was beautiful in the way a winter sky is beautiful: crisp, distant, and untouchable. Jennie bit the inside of her cheek, wondering if Jisoo ever noticed how her presence made Jennie fold inward and bloom all at once.

Jennie was once an expert in flirting, so she didn't know how to act when suddenly the blast of love overflowed in her like an unstoppable force. She never cared enough, so she flirted mindlessly with anyone around her, never catching feelings even once. However, Jisoo was quite different. At first, Jennie could never understand the concept of why people never noticed that love was so near to them the whole time, but with realizing Jisoo's presence around her and how she caught that feelings from the shared glances, she finally knew.

Jisoo shifted slightly in her seat. Jennie's breath hitched, hopeful for a flicker of attention, a shared smile, anything. But Jisoo just tucked her hands under her thighs and kept her gaze forward, unreadable as always. Jennie looked back at the screen, but the story unfolding there felt thin compared to the quiet ache building inside her chest.

It was always like this—moments suspended in glass. If she reached out, would Jisoo shatter?

They both were just watching a simple movie. It was not romantic, but it was not horrifying either. It wasn't comedic. It wasn't cartoonish. It was just a slice of life, with no action, and wasn't that artistic either. But it was something both Jennie and Chaeyoung had always liked in common: something that could help their heads ease and wander off easily.

But those wanderings took Jennie completely off lane.

She remembered a night two years ago. Jisoo had laughed—really laughed—at something Jennie said. Back then, the distance between them wasn't as thick. Back then, Jennie let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something small and sacred growing. But time passed, and Jisoo built her walls higher. And Jennie, unsure of her place in Jisoo's world, simply let herself be turned away gently, like rain on a sealed window.

The movie played on. A character whispered something romantic, something full of longing.

"Lisa, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible," confessed the male main character.

Jennie swallowed hard. She thought to herself and questioned was it necessary to have such cheesy lines on a slice of life film.

But what's even worse was that very line carried her into a thought: she didn't know if the fear that Jisoo would never love her, or the fear that Jisoo had once tried to and gave up quietly when Jennie wasn't looking was worse.

As the scene on screen shifted into darkness, Jennie let her fingers fall slightly to the side—closer to Jisoo's hand, but not quite touching.

A test. A prayer.

Jisoo looked towards Jennie. They both didn't know how the other felt, but both had their hearts racing. Blood pumped to their cheeks, turning them red as chili peppers in a quick shared look. But in the darkness and the loudness of the theatre, neither knew.

The scene changed into something a tad bit dramatic. And what Jennie didn't know was it would include a close up shoot of a butterfly, the phobia that bothered Jennie for the longest time. But Jennie couldn't risk embarrassing herself in front of Jisoo, so she just closed her eyes and looked away.

But a hand suddenly caught Jennie's sweaty palm, conquering like an emperor upon a newly untouched yet blessed land. Fingers interlocked. Jennie froze. For a heartbeat, for two, she thought she had imagined it. But the hand in hers was warm—delicate but sure. Not hesitant. Not mistaken.

Her eyes flew open, and Jisoo was still looking at the screen, though her brows had softened, her lips parted slightly, as if she too couldn't believe what she'd just done.

Jennie didn't dare to move. Not even to breathe too loudly. Her heart had leapt so high she feared it might burst through her chest and reveal every inch of longing she had buried all these years. She was known to be bold. She could flirt through fire and ice. But this—this quiet holding of hands in a dim theatre, in a moment neither loud nor scripted—was the most terrifying intimacy she had ever felt.

Jisoo didn't let go.

Her grip was gentle, almost trembling. Jennie turned her palm ever so slightly and curled her fingers back around Jisoo's in response. A small squeeze. A whispered thank you, wordless, between skin and pulse.

For a moment, the theatre disappeared. The world outside—Chaeyoung's insistence, years of misunderstandings, the ache of distance—none of it mattered. Just two hands, two lives briefly touching in the dark, holding on like it was the only real thing left.

The butterfly disappeared from the screen, unnoticed.

Jennie finally exhaled.

Jisoo finally turned to her. Their eyes met—uncertain, yes, but open.

"You're scared of butterflies."

"You remember that?" Jennie asked Jisoo, hand still unwilling to unwrap from Jisoo's.

"Of course, I do." Jisoo smiled. Not hesitant. But clear. But close. But honest. 

She had always cared.